Slow

Who cares what the slow guy thinks? I watched a slug gliding over a rock on its single foot: water flowing uphill, Aladdin’s carpet. I like how, during a yawn, my head fills with the roar of its own surf. So much better than those hiccups called anger, pride, shame, or the fever with which my poor sam pee-body — as the sparrows say — tries to rid itself of that virus love.