By the time I awake,
I am already alone for the day.
I find your body as a comma,
a linen emboss of man,
plaster of paris-cast in your
sheets of smooth sleep.
The bed holds no more of me
than bitsy ditto marks, creased tracks
from my sliced up night of
Eulogy to a Garden Snail
The garden snail as noble knowledge-seeker.
How much it must record with such snugness to the earth,
a body’s naked fondling of the braille of garden soil,
slow-suckling of suburban walls, euphoric excretions
of savouring still-time, of silent molluscked tai chi.
Maintaining such sensitive peristalsis over
lawnmower vibrato, the manic buzz
of bees to flower.
Data stored as mucus maps
that fancy shell of Tiger’s Eye
a smoky wooded library
a canister of microscopic details
a promising shield for a life of wisdom
crypt of slow-knowing,
splintered in a second
by the weight of the rubber sole of a speedy
foot. A plastic sneaker,
home from a long day of yapping and