May I eat this tender chop,
carved from the lamb by the butcher
who follows at only a step?
May I eat this ear of corn, these teeth
sown in the furrow that follows the plough—this
crop that springs point first
disturbing the crumbling ground?
Confused though we are by this crushing stone, which
must have been thrown by one of us
—hollow clanging armour gleaming—hot butter
smiles along the long rows,
salted. we meet. here. teeth to teeth.
Finally,
may I
eat—May I
breathe—this
Dust—your
philosophy?
© Dan Goorevitch 1999, 2004