A Week into the Fall

A Week into the Fall

At 6:35 morning is still enchanted like a Psalm gone wrong:

the axiomatic hum-chirp of birds, the chug of empty Ministry
buses up and down Figueroa St., the foot-drag of hard
walking men who would prefer to be in bed pistoning
their cylinders rather than thawing their cords for
the grind ahead next week.

A snail moves across the painted green edge
of the planter box, curls left then stretches
downward out onto moist soil seeking
the sweet leaf of Eve. Bits of debris
glue to its tentacles. The decision
to press onward does not come

quickly—algorithms must be weighed, calculated,
and meted out in mucus-silver tracks; no thought
at all of time; gentle crucifix bouncing astride an
elevated cleft of white blouse or the sagging
nude hose of avid church goers. And inside
the box the snail heads resolutely back
over the rhythm of the terrain, reading
topography as only a snail can.

There must be a motive, an Original
thrust for gooey stuff such as do I
return to bed and inch over
her frictive surfaces that
echo if I can hear them.

This is the best time...
light breaking, moving
furtively toward my Fall.