Field of Snails

Wipe your feet before you enter the room
The cameraman will just be a moment
A cripple wriggles in from the window
And crawls into a maple jar
And I say we all are cripples in a maple jar
I say, take my sneakers to the power-lines
Clouds hang like the limbs of a wartime pilot
I say, I suppose this is dangerous
A sunken wrap across the people
Who look incredulously taken
A great hushed mistake
I say, behave my weeping
A dog bathed in peculiar alarm
Rises into one large nostril
And catastrophe stains the salted feet
Hundreds upon hundreds are quitting
But less and less.