Immersed in whiskey the heart of a snake
is a drink. Nothing good can come

of drinking it. It pulses at the bottom
of its little glass, still knowing. Somewhere,

we are having dinner on a summer night
in Copley Square. You are laughing

and telling a woman that you love her.
My summer dress is flooded with the wind,

and, like in dreams, I can’t speak out. I never
learned to interfere. This is not a dream.

Here’s what happened next: I opened up
his mouth and entered him, the heart

a mess of vines, a woman’s hair, his teacher’s
voice echoing throughout the chambers.

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