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—cooked by crooked   
math—is more   
than enough.   
For example, the rough   
patch on the roof   
of the mouth we tongue—
a light fixture, chandelier   
of texture—is so much   
more than mere   
canker. And when   
fingering the clasp   
on Father's snuffbox,   
his fine initials   
grate against our   
fingerprints' grain   
like an engraved last gasp.   
Less, being more, makes   
of the tectonic plates   
of molehills   
a mountain ridge   
the way the stark plain   
of the White Album's sleeve   
raises the Beatles' embossed logo   
to the level of topography—
the way tiny things   
can't help being, next   
to nothing, something—
the unanticipated mole   
that makes a one-night stand's   
upturned ass, the last leaf out   
on a limb, the little   
going a long way.

Source: Poetry (February 2007)

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This poem originally appeared in the February 2007 issue of Poetry magazine

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