This morning I found in the kitchen a snail
the color of a worn ping-pong ball. I stepped
on it barefoot, thought it a Lego, a stale piece
of crusty bread. Instead, a spiraled bone. The dog
nudged it with her nose, let it be, and stood by
the sliding glass door to go outside. The change
of seasons? The night’s hard rain? The cats?
They’ll make anything a toy. Last week, the small
one launched herself at the window trying
to attack the two geese in the backyard. What
drives us? What sways slowest when we
touch it, pluck with our fingers what we think
we see. Do you wish too? It’s hard, desire,
harder even than fate. Listen: Prayer is lust.