Denial grew as its excuses dwindled. A body
Staring disastrophe in the snake eyes, fangs
Already sunk up to their gums in its neck,
Thought, well, what if someone came along
And unhooked this snake from my veins,
I wonder what that would feel like. How
Should I go about stanching the blood, what
Should I do with my life once I'm healed?
All the while the fangs injected poison
And the eyes didn't blink. Every half instant
Inching toward oblivion was spent spinning
Increasingly elaborate and implausible
Futures to live after this crisis had passed.
A body could spot a small bird in the mouth
Of a rattler vanishing across the courtyard,
Could glimpse the beak still opened wide
And think, I shall compose a poem about
That poor bird, and nature, and beauty,
And the doors of perception, and eternity,
And eternal return, or at least arrange words
And images redolent of all such deep things,
Without thinking, why can't I shut my beak?
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