Laocoön

Eh, the spring came back, taking

one stair at a time. A coiled silver squirrel:

I quaked when I sensed it, heaved

when it touched me. The spring snapped,

promenaded throughout me, a tremor.

From some sea it mined me.

Now I’m terrified of dying,

I have scabs on both of my feet.

 

A bald man who looks like me

takes a red knife to his hand, his red hand.

He chews out a splinter,

then mops the floor, figure eights.

Steam climbs from the sud-streaks

and walks off, taking the stairs

in a hurry, not pausing

to view our family portraits.

 

It is 8:25. Where are the Swiss now

to keep us lonely and accurate?

We prize some people only

for their mountains. We fear and envy

a death like Laocoön’s, coiled up, dis-

membered. So we nominate sentries,

we tack our eyes to the skyline.

But there is no fighting some snakes.