17

The snake said

Your tripe is grim and cursed

Some of you will fall to thorns

To inherit a meek earth

While sitting at the western wind

Melt of spells

Under the palms of hand

Pulsing

Held by wet cup

The snake said

May you writhe

Faith tossed back

Tied to a chandeliered want

Waters draw and

Wisdom’s fragrance lures