I declare,
I'll be the one to do it—I hereby
volunteer
to keep
tasting the slimy side of life
over and
over and over
again, each time that I
eat.
Not that I might
grow to like it more than I did before;
only, somehow,
each time—
that I might taste it better, more
simply,
and more slowly
than I did the last time. And not in order
to learn
some new
and better form of satiety, but rather
that I might be able
to better describe—
the texture, the mouthfeel
of humility
evinced by such supple
mushy things which, having never themselves
felt particularly lusty to grow
nor willfully
desperate to ripen, have thereby
patiently remained,
all of them, precious
and golden individual children;
while simultaneously
each of them,
managing, by sheer coincidence—to father
countless millions.
