at the end of each short line lies a grass button
beneath its roots the poet finds small protein deposits
crepuscular veins wring cracks and splinter every syllablewriggling muscular worms, armored rolly polys
crumpled pages of the wasteland like garland strung
and every now and then a rock.”We need to eat,” the mirror answers back.
but we are tired of singing birds and skinny trees
these hallow bones and rows of teeth
we bow beneath the weight of discourse, present company excepted
“We need to eat,” repeats the mirror wearily.
should the reader choose to push that button
a boiled ham will appear in the arms of
the cushion-plant: “Mount Herron is our home!”
mirrors fear vanity’s drought
with a single soft finger
the poet buries a blade of grass
a short & modest line
a buttered nub of italian bread.