Their eye-stalks unfurl the way
you turn socks right-side-out,
the eye a surprise at the end,
so to picture a snail dying —
not pierced or gouged or caved in
like a church, but dying of natural
causes, its little foot crawling,
brainless, hoping, like your blood,
to one day feed a forest floor —
picture your held, worn socks,
twinned in the dark interior
of your sock drawer, waiting
for you to unthinkingly warm
them, the treasure you hide
in one less-loved sock waiting,
also, to be taken out and turned
to wink in endless,
gushing light —
though you are never coming home,
and the drawers you closed once
will remain always closed,
their contents wondering
if love’s thin topsoil has washed
away, or if your blood, right now,
is wrong-side-out and meeting light
and you are pierced — irreparably
pierced — but crawling, still,
crawling to your treasure
through the woods.
