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A Young Slug on the Counter
Brought in unawares -- suddenly
Airborne as he was clambering
Over the Times in his cruise
Across the rainy sidewalk
In the early November dark.
And now on the move again,
Singlemindedly, belongingly,
In the warm lit kitchen,
His rain-freshened, mucusy skin
Glistening, clean as the porcelain tiles;
And meanwhile, to imagine, still
Travelling through his tissues
Toward the immaculate dark
At his center, the phosphorus-cold glow
Of his wonder: shy, by itself, slow.