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.
