Frogs, deer, toads, rattlers,
dogs, anyone may employ
the byway of this lane.
August thirteen, 04,
tall grass, hot, dry, now I am
there, sun at my back,
walking-thinking snake-
words: serpents, adders, slith’ring
asps, their beauty marks,
When … hey! You there! You,
you, whip-like Elegance, your
tongue crimsonly cogitating!
Not for you a rattler’s
intricacies of concealment:
To strike/not to strike.
You, green Paragon
of Length—you, moving Mark of
Verticality:
I’ll wait here for you.
“Please, you, go first. After you—
I’m in no hurry.”
© by Grace Hughes Chappell.
Used with the author’s permission.
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