the meat centre begins with the price of the tongue.
Just one forkful and a succulent creature lacquered around the tongue.
The appetite note is a confusion: everything is a taste, but not food.
I wonder if hunger is just a slow universe, like other half-cooked ones,
born to ready the meaty physics holed up by humans, animals,
Mere drillings into the stuff do not let you learn what is not so random
about this gaping gap, quite experimentally discovered, but of course
all men get less surprised who believe in the filling. Just filling, no text
no major aloofness or suitable crescendo,
no trope-like adventure – only filling. Patches beautified this way,
how every dark symphony takes on nights and galloping stars,
how moon belongs with a daily pretender’s obsessiveness and our neat
comedian makes the entire sky mooned. Then there’s no hollow at all,
only a rooftop expanded to your incremental growth, your ambition
of thumping, your dream of living free, combustion-proof,
light-hearted – a light.
You are now able to see: how among a million teachings one is to
optimistically close every book or mouth. How not to find music
in the ashes, only to collect soundlessness when a mother in an urn,
not a mother, bones no more bones but cherish of a mineral, kept,
optimally, as food for the soil. Meanwhile, another mother,
the mother sparrow, is busy teaching the baby sparrow what a food
is all about, without a fear when a fear is whether a body is just too
blunting, dust-proof, dust-free – a mother bird teaching a baby bird
what a body is all about, eaten, slowly, more slowly, or fast,