I once thought that life's what's left over after I extricate myself from the mess. I was writing a poem about paying attention and microwaved a hot dog so hot it burned a beet-red hole in the roof of my mouth. Lucrezia Borgia got shit on her fingers by not paying attention. Chanting a sutra, the monk stepped fatally on the viper's tail. Every gun is loaded and cocked. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 8 by EDWARD TAYLOR THE HOUND OF HEAVEN by FRANCIS THOMPSON THE TOUCHSTONE by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM WRITTEN IN BUTLER'S SERMONS by MATTHEW ARNOLD OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY by JOHN BEAUMONT TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES VINE DE PUY by LEVI BISHOP THE FORCED RECRUIT AT SOLFERINO by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |