Rainy night drizzle
empty sidewalk, wet
fully bloomed pink poui tree, cups of
pink flowers at the ends of branch fingers
street light it’s side makes few flowers orange-pink
shy a yard away—the lamp and this trunk a concert of
branches coiling slow, tungsten wavelengths
sparkles the black army-green scales of
this long-tail boa of anxiety pops out a new cup, a tremble
and churn she; a brief moment, when
breath becomes silence, heart stills, in the dark
between branch and flower, a shot of yellow
eye pauses
Will he? Will he only want me for?
His past? He lashed out at me, is he lighting-gas?
Before, he; will he again? But what if?
The choke of IF.
Charles Snyder 