Morning Is Morning
I have some explaining to do — 5 o’clock
meant I would speculate
about artichokes (Greek) and the unfarmed mackerel.
Anyway, the men would present us with a bed of carrot
and potatoes + 1 cup of broth.
Our husbandry in sharp mustard
suit, laden with trial pieces for the fondue. I would prefer
not to. I had such friends —
a long time faring all through the West
with my filth and a bouquet of cutlery
where I had put it: by me.
And yet expansive, the things made by the things
I made. And a supervisor hovering behind me. The heaviness
I am the Name, Jehovah called from the bush. I had visions
of pigeons. And I replied:
Here I am to be called Ishmael and beget.