I toasted it
and supped it.
it sustained me
during empty years.
I thank it.
I toast it again.
But really, what is it?
Why does it
become a purpose?
Why must it be drawn
and pulled through
the cheese grater
to land in my soup?
I dig it.
Roll around in it.
Enjoy it until
it falls on me like a brick
which empties me
in admiration
for the reality
you hold.
Then again
it appears.
Is there a
chase to cut to?
No comments:
Post a Comment