An object oriented poem with a little savoury biology.
We eat, mashing the meat of the matter
with calcium evolved enough to cope with it.
Flesh of its flesh become flesh of our flesh.
Nothing, not even death can be inert.
The meat of it never thought, despite
the organisms nattering via calendar
& root, sparked by chemical, the vital, secret push.
One process sustaining the lung’s mood.
Who would have guessed ideas need
the nourishment that comes from edibles?
There isn’t just an it behind
the thing imbibed with taste, nor its minor aroma.
It is an active stuff: an agent in a poem.
Stuff: carrot: soil: microbe: weather: farm
: town: trade: money: sight: touch: smell…
We see, touch, smell & meet each other become.
You rip a thing limb from its limb;
their metempsychosis: to be one crowd;
a left alone leitmotif, lip reading sound.
To host & to be hosted by a crumb
of thing, in short supply & long demand
as they eat away at one another in a glue
of time I cannot stop; it sticks with you.
When we finally part, there’ll be no time.