hanging on a fence
we lined the snails up across the road
and then we hung upside down on the railings
waiting seemed to be a part of childhood
which and whatever way it was viewed
it was also a slow game of chance
the future in the entrails of a snail
still horribly wet behind all these years
a rush of blood to the head
turning a smile into a grimace
devil take the hindmost ran at dusk
for something was rising there
over the hill
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