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.