Just Like a Snail

What will they think is as much
As to ask, What will they do
To me, based on this or that.

A ridge of browned leaves, a slope
Of dark pines—the world as it
Ought to be, always has been.

I sink in my shell. The shell
Will be what’s me when I’m not.
Then the shell will be ground down

Or one day will be a rock
In which it’s hard to see shells.
I spot a shell on the ridge

Of oaks and pines, pressed in stone,
Part of the stone, not quite gone.