The serpent in my gut will hiss for months before it strikes
gripping organs like cuscuta
dripping venom like a hungry dog

Sometimes I try to drown him in the sound waves
but when I lay down again his never-ending
sibilation echoes softly in my skull

Once or twice I thought I heard a word in his relentless sound
a syllable of foreboding
a threat upon a draft

But there is no substitute for anticipation.
And when he bites, my ribs leave splinters
in my laboring lungs.

Under the Bridge, along the Promenade: we
walked with words trickling through our
waxy lips. Where the Seafront was all silk.
Where the Waxwings, sealed wax tips,
lumbered about the Empyrean yonder:
splayed upon a Canvas
of Sapphire and Azure.
Before the Starry Night has come.
Before we reached the Shore only to
Digress.
    "Liebe verleiht Flügel,"
I heard, or read in a Book.
The Streets are crimson rust;
The Spectators in Sanitariums watched
drab passersby. They shambled and
coughed admixt the crowded room, only
to find the Peristyle vacant and dead.
A Mantic Women, cards of dread,
stands on the corner; our
eyes catched, and She speaks:
    "Wo bist du?"
        "Wo bist du?"
            Louder and fists shaking:
    "Wo bist du?"
The buildings doddered, filled with
Cuscuta.
In Montauk, where we met, now withered,
covered in snow, I stood - my comportment
unsteady. Flashing in the distance I see
Point Light - Captain Kidd musing with his
Money Ponds - an Angel guiding wonderous
blights - The Recognitions, blimey,
Mr. Gaddis has gone blind - The Faustian
apotheosis abound -
The Streets are crimson rust
filled with dread.
Smelling of Jack-by-the-hedge -
I'm walking...
Noctivagant aura permeates -
Mich.