A Gastropod Transmits My Image to its Unconscious Self

This snail in my hand -
an Aztec moon god,
a nocturnal hermaphorodite:
its shell pattern 
entices me
like a prayer wheel.

Without its delicate horns
the shape of a thin tongue,
a labia or holy almond,
the soft translucent flesh
("The unconscious!" says Mr Jung) 
so alien in my torchlight
hardened resin to the touch
as if a secret lies therein...

The one I'm holding,
secreting a fine river to sail upon,
is deaf and part-blind
yet unfurls itself
in its own time
as if there's something important to say
the horns extending, relaying 
an image of me 
but to where ?

I deposit it in undergrowth. 
There is work to do and its slime,
still fresh in the palm of my hand,
tastes like sticky ink.
The snail transmits to its unconscious self,
to its brittle conscious shell,
a tiny scribe weaving its
trail through a warm forest night -
from high above the glittering patterns
a codex-to-be 
yet to be deciphered,
a symbol
yet to be read.