The Snail

It takes its time; a leaf hangs low in a bush,
irregular and spacious, mailbox dew. Apolitical, 
not like Elysium, now near oil refineries. 
This day, the rain is over: the thunder, the mood, 
the reason to commodify miserableness. 
Still, you tell me it might yet storm this afternoon,
to stall restlessness, keep recognition corrupt. 
It is morally repellent to you if the sky clears, 
if the sheets, the pillowcases hanging on the line, 
dry. The bronze-banded snail pokes antennae,
feels the leaf. This is not naïve orthopraxy,
a story of a crooked cup and broken mill.
The snail catches onto the wayward leaf
until it pulls its body onto the green cooperative.
You told me that during the war you could see
Manchester burning from here, that further, 
you can see Liverpool on a clear day. 
You did not mention the old wooden box, 
the crushed shell, the soft body in captivity.