i saw a snail marching across the driest pavement
staring was all i could help but do
lost, i became, in the grace with which it left behind
a trail of iridescence
my presence neither feared nor hurried his march
for he knew only, not the end of the pavement
comfort, he finds in death; none but a machine finds pleasure in the foreverness of pavement.
Heroin Diaries 
I have this habit of picking up tortured, writhing worms from dry pavements and tossing them into nearby foliage or soil – but sometimes I feel too watched (who after all picks up worms?) or else there are just too many. Why do birds not eat them? Their dessiccated remains are emblems of waste. Thanks for your poem, There at least was one snail trail not wasted
yes sir no wasted trails!! and thank you :]