I knew this girl who would throw up if she smelled the rain on pavement:
That's a quotation from someone you don't know.

So what if some idiot Sufi poet had a thing against
Snakes?  Look into the hard eye of a particular
Snake, an orange and black and yellow one,
All the colors of Indian corn, look into
His eye, orange and black and hard,
Look into his eye
And he will look back.

When you pick him up, this orange
And yellow and black snake is like
Butter, soft and warm, and he glides
Through your hands with inconceivable ease.
He has no smell, no musk, his skin is smooth,
Much smoother than your own, smoother still
Than your child's skin when she was first born,
And when this black and orange
And yellow snake flicks his tongue, it feels on your skin
Like the wings of butterfly once touched
When you were ten.

But Rumi was right,
The snake has no knowledge
Of friendship, but if you trust Lawrence's account,
We don't either, so it's fair.

So you put the snake down, you let him go, and
As a parting gesture, he yawns for you, opens
His double-hinged jaws wide, and you see the
Tiny twin rows of infinitesimal teeth; this snake,
After all, eats only small things and lacks venom.
And with that he's gone, and you're left with
The smell of the rain on the pavement.