who man-handled away her love,
Stomped on the slow moving snail
Like a failed hunter
Wearing cargo pants and pearls.
She who put it's crushed shell in a box
(Like Proust with the teacup pieces)
She laid the crushed snail beside 17 eyelashes
From 15 lovers and the brownish coloured
leg of a child's action figure
its' painted pants still visible,
Found by train tracks,
Marked black from having been
by some long gone child
the kind of child who explodes toys for fun
(such like many).
this she found along with a lost doll
which looked south american to her,
judging from it's guatemalan type sewn dress and stick legs,
reminiscent of day of the dead dolls she had seen in mexico
and her feeling dead inside she made the connection,
took it home, in pocket, alongside possible charred g.i. joe leg.
and snail shell pieces.
laid them out to be seen anew, repositioned, fingered, as she was wont to do with things.
these things a pain, always more, always carrying, always finding always looking down, her army pants good and useful for their many large pockets.
cut glass from a syringe once cut her reaching in, forgetting what was there, syringes being a favourite find, only the old kind the thin clear cylinder that once held something nice like morpheine.