To Eat or Be Eaten

Black-flies enter my writing house.
Too numerous to count, they hurry
across and up and down the window panes
fitfully seeking escape, unaware of the spider
two panes over, watching to see how well
its webbing will work.
The black-flies flew
through the open door. Granted they didn’t
know of the spider, but fly they did, and walk
they will into the webbing. The room throbs
with inevitability. They will be etherized
like Eliot’s patient upon the table, as will we
for better or worse in the end.

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In Praise of Egg Salad Sandwiches

Enamored of all about the beloved
––by the eye, the hand, the trembling mouth––
the lover is undone.
For me, it’s egg salad sandwiches.’’

Inspired by a distant view of The People
––breeding, borning, living, dying––
the revolutionary is undone.
But for me, it’s egg salad sandwiches.

Give me a wedding where the budget is low
guests on folding chairs row on row
plates piled high with the hens’ sweet roe.
Yes, for me it’s egg salad sandwiches.

Soggy white triangles with hardening crust
preferably no lettuce but mayo a must.
The newlyweds plight their troth and their trust.
As for me, it’s egg salad sandwiches.

 

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