THE SLUG POEM

I wrote an unfinished poem

about the time I killed a slug with salt.

I went into great detail –

nevertheless or alwaysthemore –

I did not finish it.

It was a build up:

and the more I wrote,

the more nuance I added.

Here is what I was attempting to say

in that long drawn out poem

about me salting a slug to death.

Immediately after I shook a few granules

onto its plump body, it began to shrivel.

I felt horrible and tried to revive

its desiccated body – I failed.

I was 11 years old and it taught me

a lesson: compassion. So,

the point I was trying to make

with a slow build

sneak-attack

salt-a-slug

to death poem

is this: people kill people all the time,

and

I am amazed at their ability

to continue living in a

seemingly carefree manner

(or non-carefree manner).

Maybe some killers know

some things about the afterlife we don’t?

“Death is not the End” (?)

hmm…it’s more convincing

when Dylan or Cave sing’s it.

Is there something to that?

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