Tonight, I saw an outstretched slug,
for the first time in my life.
It had a peculiar beauty that was quite appealing—
peppered with black and white spots like a bratwurst—
the hot black pavement its coals.
It moved slowly and sizzled in the summer sun.
That reminds me:
the last slug burned into my memory
turned colors and shriveled up
when my brother sprinkled salt all over it.
But that was years ago
and now it makes me wonder
what an unsalted slug tastes like.
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