The Snake

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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.

© William Matthews