The other day
with cold train
of barbed gray rain—November came and
it was suddenly—quick! never mind
the old-
time war
between—the prepared stuff
and the raw.
Countryfulls
of kitchen
ovens and their clocks—I bet
the whole
midwest—and Kate and I
and even the dog
not excepted!—yes, all seemed
to jump—just like that
and then
fall back—intent
on a similar
but much
more comfortable plot—an admittedly more
pillowy—mashup between
what's hard
and what's soft;
because nothing's like
a chilly red sun
setting on your first teapot
to make it dawn—
everything's already
pretty
cooked—
as its likely ever
going to get,
but most things are only
tough—until you decide make them warm
or wet
or both—for just a little
bit
and then—they're not.
