Poetry

Higher orders

I woke in the night and went out
into the garden. The seedlings bowed
under the weight of snails. I was alone
with the cool moonlight; a posse
of midnight cowboys on my trail.

They’re coming near. Those mistakes
that no one knows are piling up.
There’s a tracker in the movies
who always can find the sign,
the one miss-step.

I say a prayer to the luna gods,
to the high elves, to Jesus, to Paul,
and all them old-fashioned martyrs.
The snails are munching the tenderest
shoots. I contemplate their form,
wait for higher orders.

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