I don’t have much attachment.
That house’s gone; I’m here.
The city’s burnt down; I’m here.
I don’t have any attachment.
Oh yeah maybe I
Yes, I do.
Seventy titles of myth
Several columns of poetry
Bacon and Lamb are never to be roasted:
Or if you’d call that “digestion”.
And digestion disorders haunt me,
So I’d prefer not to
Have it medium well, please.
Stacked up, piled high,
Dusted and rugged and seasoned
With my own words.
Would you like the prose du jour with that?