Paths puddled with still water,

grass shellacked, peristaltic

stretch of slugs to inch along.

They shoulder cloaks like groomed snow,

if the clouds could confetti

down glazed terra-cotta scales,

if sky were bog and stained white

the red of the Jutland brick.

A slug passes by a snail’s

discarded shell in shards,

blind to the descending boot

before it’s smeared silent

into gravel, a deck fanned

out on the table. Pure chance:

sole meets slug, might meets mucus –

the world depends on the kindness of strangers.

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