“The snail has no hands,
the snail has no feet;
gently the snail climbs the tree.”
As It’s Written
Your body was written by God.
These pictures are my old scriptures.
My word, the birds are angels
exploding around us in dizzy light
in the heart of tonight’s soft room.
The reunion of what’s real between us
can never start too soon,
yet we cross our inner darknesses
like snails, write shiny trails—
from shells of thought emerge
all tender-ridged and fluttery
to merge and marry.
All around us, over everything,
our silence carries.