Francis Scudellari's poem gives love a strange body: a twisted, snake-like creature that crawls into the speaker's mind, or, as the speaker corrects himself, his heart. The parenthetical asides work like second thoughts. The speaker keeps revising his own description, choosing between "slides" and "slithers," or between "kindly" and less kind words. That hesitation suggests he feels both drawn to this creature and uneasy about it.
The creature is cool, quiet, and beautiful, with feathered scales and a "rainbow-capped smile." Yet it also seems a little grotesque, with its bulging middle and twin necks that belch vapor. What comes out is a kind of music or writing, "spells" and "spiral hymns" that are almost wordless. The speaker tries to hold onto it, but it oozes through his clutched hands. Only from a distance, drowsy and close to sleep, does he catch its meaning.
The mood is dreamlike, wary, and quietly wistful. Love here feels beautiful but impossible to grasp.