The Snake Inside The Earth

The snake has buried himself
inside the Earth.
His lungs are made of sycamore;
your hands and my feet
are his mind.

Whatever we touch,
he meditates.
Wherever we go,
he is the invisible actor
moving behind us.

In the city,
his skin is the color of steel.
Under the redwoods,
of dry mud.

I’m writing with a pencil
in a blue notebook.
From the tip of my index finger,
his tongue spurts out and
brushes against your neck.
A branch of water.

In the silence
of these strange weeks,
the activity we observe
is only the snake’s rising up.
Someday soon
his movement will break the planet open.