Clade Song 16

The Slug

It is always exactly
where it happens to be,
for where it happens to be
is the only place it can be:
here on this path
littered with dead leaves,
this foot that never lifts itself,
this procession of one —
the slowness it must be
of some kind of peace or grief.
It overlooks so little,
its fate seems preordained.
Off to either side,
nothing's to be gained.
It does not run about,
chasing some airy rhyme —
all it leaves is this glistening,
monologic trail of slime.
It doesn't stand teetering on toes —
the slug slides slowly, surely,
it must know exactly where it goes.

read by Tim Kahl; audio background by Tim Kahl