This snail demands you see it
This spiral holds secrets
That require time
As a friend takes time
As a flower takes time
You who scurry past
A shadow of yourself
The thin, long grey one
That cannot see the sun
You streak along a tarmac track
Trailing the shroud you never notice
Till it trips you up
Winds you in its white spiral
Whispers in the coil of your ear
Mysteries which, in the rattle of your life
The clatter of your death
You cannot hear.
The snail secretes slowly
This spiral requires time
As a friend takes time
As a flower takes time
As the sun has taken years
To bleach the stone
On which you warm your back,
Leaning, in the morning,
Against heaven,
If you take the time
If you take the time.
The smallness of her,
Squashed in among the metro crowd,
The sallow skin, pecked away in patches,
One eye dim behind a thick blunt lens,
The other eye darts sideways, startled.
A navy raincoat with uneven hem
Falls over misshapen legs, bloated,
Scarred and stained with blotches.
Her whole being, contorted, shivers
With her non-belonging,
Her twisted form repels
The rush-hour crowd,
They leave a space
For her to stand in,
To stand
In high-heeled golden shoes,
Her feet beautiful and tapping,
Ready to tango.