Two coiled black snakes,

I’ve come to unshackle
yr minds from metaphor,

every now & then poets
exercise the right to say

enough, shush, luxuriate
in their inscrutable moves.

Burn yr keyboards, poets!
who has seen a real snake

living their best life openly
without a shadow of doubt

chewing after them, would
you shriek and hug a friend,

would you think it’s a bad
omen, a flick of loss, death,

would you feel certain yr
fear is the right one to have.

You’ve made the snakes
nervous by now, of course.

Watch them go into hiding
far away from yr ambition,

we are left with the tintype
of memory, the day we saw

two snakes enjoying each
other candidly in the grass.

Now you tell me dear poets,
which is more sublime:

the material you are eager
to confiscate or the fresh

wave of creature pardoned
by an unseen god before u