snail on a dandelion leaf
opens a hole of empty white light
in the spiral of his shell
his mucus-trail turns to hottest fire
the dandelion clock goes
rapidly back to yellow after firing its seeds
into the dying
I offer my palm
to the inching of this visitor
from a dimension of tightly-woven,
never-dying, heavily compacted light.
He crawls through a faint stigmata
the only part of my hand that is still there.