Alias

My oldest friend has made himself over, 

a charming snake with a new skin 

and a woman who finds the air too thin. 

His whiskers shine like shards of obsidian

and his eyes, small in the late sun, 

examine everything around him-- 

the sugar cubes and the scattered plates, 

the miscellaneous chairs, the cup of plums, 

the shimmering liquid inside of his mug. 

Each separate thing slides into him, 

becoming beautiful in his hands 

and naked in his eyes and all of these

will change in the dimming light but will

always have the mark of having been 

with him, briefly yet completely. 

At high tide they stroll, hand in hand. 

He looks east, her hand slips, crickets fly 

like magic wands. The air is thin. No hands 

hold air, no words scar the skin of the plum.  

She stares as the mussel pits fill up with rain. 

Together, they seem so angular, making 

slow gestures so as not to crumble or collide. 

The starling at the edge of the ocean looks cold. 

My oldest friend has made himself over, 

a charming snake with a new skin 

and a woman who finds the air too thin. 

His whiskers shine like shards of obsidian

and his eyes, small in the late sun, 

examine everything around him-- 

the sugar cubes and the scattered plates, 

the miscellaneous chairs, the cup of plums, 

the shimmering liquid inside of his mug. 

Each separate thing slides into him, 

becoming beautiful in his hands 

and naked in his eyes and all of these

will change in the dimming light but will

always have the mark of having been 

with him, briefly yet completely. 

At high tide they stroll, hand in hand. 

He looks east, her hand slips, crickets fly 

like magic wands. The air is thin. No hands 

hold air, no words scar the skin of the plum.  

She stares as the mussel pits fill up with rain. 

Together, they seem so angular, making 

slow gestures so as not to crumble or collide. 

The starling at the edge of the ocean looks cold.