I’ve had the time of my life, friends, living quietly like a snail in a pocket. It’s a rather simple tale, really, as elegant and amoral as a Latin poet’s. I loved the sailboat and airplane rides. I loved the fossil of a mouse. The sweetness of growing into a man whose dreams— like leaves or a bird’s nest— came to life. But times have changed, and the snail now lives in a single-dwelling unit with pillows and lamps. The woe is gone, and the demons of the woe. On the front lawn, a queen lays eggs to build up the bee colony. A crow pecks at an orange. My breast is strong from morning swims. I take unto me new things to keep in the vessel, and let go of others.
