There is something on this table. Smooth mahogany,
Pounded by needles of – Something,

Smooth yet scratched, scratching, Red and brown, too many rings.

In these recent days, I have become Some kind of great snake.
Twisting lowly,
Eternal movement.

These eyes do not blink, But roll like marbles,
Off the table,
Red and brown, rolling, Off mahogany.

Under – underneath,
Is cool, dark,
And smooth, smooth like glass, Smooth like scales and clarity.

I have become some kind of tortuous snake That will be killed at the end of time.