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 I saw a young snake glide
Out of the mottled shade
And hang, limp on a stone:
A thin mouth, and a tongue
Stayed, in the still air.
It turned; it drew away; Its shadow bent in half; It quickened and was gone I felt my slow blood warm.
I longed to be that thing.
The pure, sensuous form.
And I may be, some time.

by John Burnside
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