In regular video installments a woman knits outfits
for little woolen frogs. I am trying to make ramen
soften in this gray, much scraped barrel of a pot
and through a hair-thin fissure let slip a large egg’s
unhatched wish. It just vanishes, like an acrobat
fallen into a net of wheat or a number, infinity—
roiling of noodles and cloudy albumen, as though
really an Odyssean quantity of sclera were smashed
by single-file blunt tines. Sustenance that’s hot.
Quickly, the fried raft is stirred apart, a looseness
tossing on silver heat, almost as a smoked scroll
will be hung over slight fire and, like moonflowers,
yield its whole vegetal language: the braided lines
of alien grammar, the galling iron words somewhere
between continental drift and an irrevocable theft.
Click here to read Erick Verran on the origin of the poem.
Image: photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash , licensed under CC 2.0.
