Sometimes it’s in the very first bite Sometimes in the smooth savoring Sometimes just after it’s fully consumed But in each action there is that moment Some call it bliss, or perfection, or Heaven Or doing the hokey-pokey, turn yourself around A seventh sense, perhaps, something nous Where it seems the state you are in What you are doing at that instant The crunch and gush and swallow The rush of sensations paused, or Continuing
Silent morning—a fog like the ghost Of autumn trees and brush and leaves Rises up to the skies, a wavering host Of spirits climbing to clouds, their winter post. Farmers are nearly done gathering sheaves And stalks stand like sentinels—grave stones— Encumbered by rooks whose coarse song weaves Harvest into winter, as Earth her life heaves Into barns and bins. She creaks and groans From the heavy toil of summer, spent, To lie
In the beginning there was light, and this light became life for mankind. From divine nostrils to feldspar veins was life breathed, and in the blood contained. In the blood. A body mystically woven from magic and mud exploded into action: pumping, cycling, consuming. Communing with an entire garden of food, air, and fluid. Taking into itself by some parasitic act of sorcery the entire physical universe and rewriting it as flesh.