no poem is good as
sitting, thinking
of a poem or 3

eating three poems for lunch
--  if  you know what i mean --
pass them as prose later on
but if you knew what i mean

i wouldn’t have to be
sitting here
 

dreaming of a three poem man
thinking of the apollo lunar module
crammed with neal, bud and buzz
three weightless sardines
hurtling to the lunar surface
returning with moon rocks and moon dust,
moon poems of how earth looks from the moon.

they’re out back now (the poems)
composting, getting guttural
but they go down good, as a matter of fact
and as a matter of sideways gravity,
 

 so too

will we soon have a few fresh stanzas for a snack
with ripe wine from the insubstantial endless grape
shorn, sucked
from every chiasmic Garden:
all plucked, reaped.




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