What if you pulled together something remarkable, dangerous,
Almost incredible, and no one noticed? Would you be left
Crying warnings like teenagers in a 1950s movie about monsters
Or aliens, like Cassandra by the gate, or like a vendor
With a flimsy stall full of elaborate horoscopes no one wants?
Would you be left with one hand holding a hand-me-down glass
Of tap water, barely potable, drawn downwind from the rivers
Of Zion, your other hand holding up a tangle of words like vipers,
A skein of accidental serpents that you have woven together
And that you swing around your head, miraculously, unbitten
And unbidden? You would, your words hiss, coiling around you.
You pretend the water is toxic, is poison, which could well
Be true, taking a gusty swig and winking at no one besides you.
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