I mess up; a snake
asleep in my palm.
Cigarette lingering in a tray,
its meditation ruptured by a pull & tug,
a gentle signal of lovers.
Maybe the form.
Maybe the elongated commas,
Can turn this world around. The philosopher’s stone
prone to be divided, like a swivel, a shake,
the cracks which break with the Fall—
The snake emerged in the photograph: a
nasty bite.
The cold convoluting within,
the innocence beseeched by the leaves, tumbled.
A clipped toe-nail, or vice versa.
With the fingers, we play the harp
which once drove us—
which once left us untied.
