There is a lake at the bot­tom of an snail’s upturned home, breath­ing and pul­sat­ing with the waves of ash that slum­ber in its eye­stalks like vaporous nec­tar. Gusts of cou­plet winds rhyme across each exposed lens atop a beat­ing cornea. The shell is mud­died with ser­pen­tine refrac­tion, fol­low­ing its own shad­ow in tor­ment­ed yards. There is no sun or moon, only stars, and the stars beat down like an arid desert storm. Des­ic­ca­tion is the activ­i­ty of today, and the curled up gas­tro­pod moves itself to con­tribute. Its prod­uct is known. A tire squeals in delight as it moves the feel­ing of fric­tion through every pore. Bright­en your tongue and let me have a look. There won’t be much more of a trail left once you find the entrance.