The Snake

A snake is the love of a thumb and forefinger.

Other times, an arm that has swallowed a bicep.

The air behind this one is like a knot in a child’s shoelace come undone while you were blinking.

It is bearing something away.

What?

What time does the next snake leave?

This one’s tail is ravelling into its burrow— a rosary returned to a purse.

The snake is the last time your spine could go anywhere alone.