A slug in a snail suit

The poets below

bellow that they wish

they had met you

before you billow

into me

because they meant

every word for you

and I mean everything

that is left,

which is only you

and the space between me

and the ground under

our dancing, slippery feet

that is swallowed by poets who

use fault lines for stanzas

to tell you that they wish

they could tire of sleep

to dream again

alongside you

*

There are too many

pretty women

and too little of them think

me pretty

for I am a slug

in a snail suit

with a shell that swells

slime that sticks

and I am stuck

with parts of me

suffused to a hole

I can’t exactly cower in

and so I move to move

following the women

but I soon lose them

and do not know where to go

for I have been here my whole life

and here was nowhere there