My dog ate the rattlesnake skin off my dresser. I framed what was left of it years less than The possum in the yard, during sun up.  My mom said it was harmed. Some infection, some disease.  Something rabid,  Something so much greater than me.  Like blood kept in meat. Held like sky to the sea. Unattached to me.  Unchanged by me. Unfazed by me.  Dissimilar to the land to my feet. Or my back to the sheets,  All frayed by me. I later told you "The only way you’d see through me