Snail on Ripe Tomato

A garden snail on a ripe tomato
Was trailing its wet love
Along the seam of its feeding,
Absorbing what absorbs,
Slime and pulp merged,
The long slow contraction
Before the love dart’s fired,
Snail muscle mounting,
Pouring out of its shell,
Surging to be all surface
That swarms and liquefies.
Not a pest but a guest
To the best of my garden,
To my reservoirs of red rain
Swollen to bursting
Where the snail drinks the sun
From the inside out
And the earth is whole.

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