S.B. Smith’s an Irish poet with a snarky ability to twist the knife. Here’s Fatal, a short poem on his home page:
early on, mist stood around
snuffling under trees in the parkland.
towards midday when I was out for a walk
the sun shone with clumsy October warmth.
my fingers smoothing the nape rolled
an infant spider into a crumb of agony,
dropped him away.
This poet’s home page is certainly worth a visit, especially if you dislike warmongers.
