by Michael T. Young



There is so much reality it often escapes me.
Even at dinner, while chewing root vegetables,
the excess bursts from my mouth with each bite.
I think it a trickle of beet juice and dab it
with a napkin. Bacon sizzles and pops on the stove
with abundant verity and I think how good,
but am at a loss to explain. Everyone chomps
and feeds their hunger until it slides off
in a sluicing of judgements. All the arguments
of taste, all the changes of season and opinion
bottled in the same mind. Puddles of distilled
thirst litter the paths and varieties of intelligence
track those waters. A bee chases us down the street
as if we reeked of nectar. He’s sweated his way
through that same sweet thought and knows it,
knows we are a source that could feed a colony
if only we had a tongue like his to harvest it.






Return to table of contents.