As the evening silvers
from the golden strands of day,
the back door swings
shut, and I sneak
out, through the tired trees
whose secret I keep,
down to the aging dock where the lake
washes the day from my hair, coiled there
between rows of rocking boats
whose big white bellies sway.
The snakes nestle
under the boards
that will rot come august.
They shift against each other,
against the wooden walls of their world,
against the perfectly green lake
they shift,
unaware of the skin
we shed.
They and I alike
in the changing light
the settling grains of sand
and the flapping sails.