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ever dumbening
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it's getting awfully crowded with the less than half baked. once fragrant sauces of truffle oil and saffron turn cold then fetid. spring greens wilt, unintentionally. souffles fall, but for this i don't even need to haul out the blue ribbon excuses. the mold on top of the settled coffee grows to remind me of fertility wasted.
the sallow eyes of the half-cleaned bluegill stare with dryness: up to nothing, down to wood. but then, the dull knives were doing such a poor job anyway. the dried herbs volatilize the last of their oils, turning grey.
citrus fruits and tubers, the last to succumb, slump in their coats and release a heavy uneasy sweetness, a rest home scent.
a confused and stunted hunger awaits an unlikely feast.
---
"Like a pillar of cloud, the smoke lingers
High in the air
In fascination--with the eyes of the world
We stare ..."
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021211
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