Mar
12th
Wed
12th
THIS POEM IS CALLED A DINNER
It is a Tuesday, I feel
_____________________ out of shape.
Lately reading my own work
holds me like a mirror holds
a crow.
(He has one leg pushed through
a small hole in the wood
sprung around a grub.
He can’t
return the foot. He pulls
and pops
the grub cleanly out of its grub-skin. (
The grub doesn’t notice much. It’s not colder
because it wasn’t warm, it’s not darker;
it wasn’t light. And still, he has
residual grubbiness.)
A footfull of exoskeleton is no dinner.)
This poem is not a dinner.
I’m asking you
m
ove on:
