In the sidelight’s shadow you say
I’m the yellow snail
we noticed earlier
who’d made it halfway across the pavement.
I can’t quite see the resemblance.
If it is me, then I’m one of the motley snails
who’ve appeared since last night’s bucketing
that rattled the skylight,
as if it were hail impelling like bingo balls;
like the carnival flourish
I catch in your warmest voice.