A Poem in the Avant-Garde style of Alam Beets.
A piece of pickle, with feathered leaves.
Jointed spines with writing on them.
There’s something in the clouds,
Pieces, shards, freckles of meat.
Bright and shining flower pedals float through streams,
And all that’s left is walnuts?
I have a small purple rock.
It was found under my ear yesterday on the walk.
Now I’m hungry again.
Do birds cry, I wonder? When they land on glass branches?
Or is there another book somewhere that they can eat?
Maybe the soup this time, since noodles are dry.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
Definitely the Soup.