Serpentine

Before it took place

before she took mine,
I saw
the serpent
made of fog
who would strangle the glimpse
of admiration, and childish amusement

afforded to me.

Now, your love does not pursue me,

like a snowball
gathering speed downhill,

but rather
drops
casually like sugar,
into warm tea.
Does not pursue me,
does not chase my name,

or my fear.
Her face
like varnish,
waits for me
in the fog
of the Sunday morning marketplace 

where I buy my milk.