This city snorts smoke,
coils its scales to create a throne.
When provoked, he poisons his enemy’s throats.
Skyscrapers like the scales of a dragon’s back;
a low tide makes it hard for the long boats,
but in the rainy season, his hood is good canopy,
and he predicts the rainfall,
blessings manifolding.
At ordination, the monk halts the confusion:
Are you human? he asks, with the face of a thousand sagas,
to be sure I’m not,
replies the fearsome Nāga.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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