Sometimes the morning calls for
a mammoth blaze—coals, kerosene, 
kindling, flint, flue, flame—desperate 
chants of BURN IT ALL DOWN! 

But sometimes you just need a single slug
slogging down the sidewalk in the soft light 
to denounce your dread of the day, 
to reframe your rage—surrender your 
incessant search for signs at every corner. 

Sometimes it is spark and smoke and ash, 
and sometimes it is simply the slug and its
grey goo ooze, its freckled flecks glinting 
in the mottled sun-shadows romping 
gleefully across the pavement. 

It is the slug—its humble frippery, its
unflappable tread, whispering all 
the new mercies that we could ever 
want to want to want to want.