In the Fist of Ophiuchus

Little skate, little kite, sky tadpole,
Five lights in a small asterism,
What story shall we tell about you?

You’re a shoulder joint, maybe a fist
Still holding the serpent’s severed tail,
Or maybe the serpent’s behind you.

Some say it’s victory, some defeat.
Let’s say the giant doesn’t exist,
No shaman and no Laocoön.

All the stars look like serpents, really,
Mostly a lot of chains and clusters,
Plus a few triangles and rhomboids,

And out of that you’ve twirled a thousand
And more differing mythologies.
Wait, who’s you here? The stars, so far off

That five in a fist look like a fish,
A skate, a tadpole, a short-tailed kite?
Or the human that has an idea

What’s out there burning, clearly, but lies?
A predator’s brain looks at the night
And sees meals and rivals, is that it?

No, it’s not predatory. It’s not,
But it is some kind of rare desire,
To simplify to elaborate.