ConsumptionAs you consume Art
Like a bulimic scoffs ice cream, We labor over every broken hieroglyph, hiding meaning for you to uncover. As I swallow art Without chewing, You pour over every tone-tint-timbre because maybe I could see or hear. Hungry as I was, yet too full for more, my apostate hadn't caught up. Ravenous though you were, now stuffed without the patience To digest all we taste We continue Unceasing in our starvation |
Small PlatesSeems like a good name for a poem
Sweet, and to the point. Reminiscent of girlhood's tea parties Someone else had. Or perhaps predictive of the servings I'll feed my own daughter - apple mush and pureed carrots - in years to come Whether augur whether memory, whether destruct-able toys to be thrown at shipping containers by our favourite Francs, Small Plates - it seemed like a good name for a poem. |
4.30 am MetroI fell in love on the metro, thought I should tell you.
He's tall - taller than you, and blonde, but not more so than you. Following him to the airport and through security, we ended up on the same flight to London (another place you are not). Relationships need fire, so I lit a match of conversation and asked for the time. His voice wasn't yours. So, though I still love the man from the metro going to London, His H+M cut-off gloves that you helped me choose for my sister, his general scruffiness and ginger beard, I am not in love. I'm not in love -- at least, not with the man from the metro. Thought I should tell you. |