Macartney’s poem fascinates itself around the violent journey of a snail across foliage and the total power the observer enjoys.
Scared static on a sliced leaf the snail’s
back-borne spiral cog spluttered, started
sudden, slid to
body a full mouth
kissing the ground
towards leaf-lit tops,
other shells above
beset in grooves
like pale pearls.
I grip pliers. Careless ape; I could cut its opal fruit with ease.
Still. We gaze upward, sweetened mouths fated forever open.