r. tuttle had a snake for 22 years.
the snake told him to go out
and get a particular plant 
and bring it back.
when he dug it up 
and brought it back
the snake died.
he buried the snake 
and planted the plant
and the plant grew 
handsome and high. 
when he spoke about his snake
i thought about mine
crushed by that mistaken kid
in my nine year self
how potent it became
more so than my other live snakes
in death
and i think about the symbol
of healing and transformation
beaten dark embossed
in a delerious clubbing snake dance
and i asked the snake dejectedly
to please renew my stunted nature
in the ravished sub-tract
even though it's me who killed you
by my sight
i learned of the unconscious evil
of humans
in the consciousness of animal death
and love i cried
i lost the union of the sky
of my snake youth  
and found the underworld spirit
crushed at nine
and ever trying to
sometimes rise