Slugs

Blithe to all the narratives,

The tumble of all the species,

Of all the worlds within the world.

Extruding its slime, gliding in time,

O’er leaf or stone or shower stall,

Resolved in solitary imperatives.

Writhing watery — slimy, solitaire,

Every place trailing a slick of silver.

It’s endless buffet of rot and decay,

Feeding the loam which is our home,

And none too palatable to predators,

Audacious, appearing the apparent heir.

And sometimes, in the deep midnight,

Bonds Slug to slug in coiled embrace,

Glorious, gross, bonded viscous adipose,

‘Til nestling eggs in dribbling the dregs,

And off to extend the formless legacy,

Of birth, decay, in seasonal sacral rite.

These few words are a plug,

For the oozing primal slug.