How many snakes swim below
your forty feet of rain?
The park where we flew kites
lies below your fathoms.
Our kites become flying fish.
They break the surface of your lake
now filled with dislodged rattlesnakes.
Cars slow on the bridge.
It’s easy to get lost in this swift mystery
we once called sky.
So the airplanes fly a little higher now.
Beyond lowering clouds, their engines thrum,
toward El Paso, toward California.
I pick earthworms off the porch,
toss them writhing
back toward the wet grass.
Given time, you’ll fall apart.