Come my love

to the roots where snakes dance.
Legless muscles wrap scales in circles across pine bark,
scratching the imagined itch that has nothing to do with skin.
They wait for nymphs to skip blissfully by, ignorant of danger
then swing from branches high-attained
and snap fangs into fur scalps soft on slippery tongues.

No venom, no harm.

It’s just for a sample of sun-drenched olives and honey
cold rats are too bitter to know.
Lack of knowledge is a poor taste
though plenty find life sustained just the same.
They slither slow, starved by a deficient diet.
We will waltz with the wise ones.

Rise above the leaves

with long straw hairs draping like beards from lips.
No pungi necessary for music

when flavor satiates the craving.

Warm air, warm mouths, warm bodies — charmed
as cobras pretend to be, to feel
this way every night once permitted to feed,
sleep.