a snake with arms that crush everything

a place turned inside out were it
without overhangs of aging stonework
bent like tired trees over, with a
focus so lush and wet
a shallow, saturated richness. the sound
of light rain when it isn't raining, the fog
of memory covering anything beyond the
nearest tree line, stood in the beginning
of what would have been anthill chambers
now collapses over centuries. too slow
to see. up in the nest, one eye
glowed waiting for white children to
step too close. a snake with arms that
crush everything