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.
