Snails

Withdrawn from toxic sprays, deadly beer,
they aestivate, motionless, in grave homes,
a vital straitening;
                           holed up for days,
ignoring the radio, the funereal newsreader,
we dine on their gummy bodies, tight knots
we prod from shells with little forks
then dip in garlic butter, dangling them
before our mouths
                           leaving only
a hard case, an empty offering:
the spiral’s apex – a whirlwind uncoiling.


Climacteric

Now I arrive, late
on a frozen sea. Distant glints
...