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The Platonist Sees Snakes at an Ideal Moment
Thin as April then and leafed to please, slow budding platonist, desirer of realms bluer and less shadowy than these, I met a memoir girl by music streams fluting their phantom water at our feet. We waded in, like plumage, to our knees, sat on a rock as if we sat on eggs when I became a rising realist. Crooked lightning through a cloud of blood lit up the faded garden I believed. A moccasin was hissing as it slid, a cougar burned behind the crochet leaves- and green excuses for my purity dangled, snake-entangled, from a tree.