Eat all you want but don’t swallow it. —Archie Moore The ruth of soups and balm of sauces I renounce equally.
What Rorschach saw in ink I find in the buttery frizzle in the sauté pan, and I leave it behind, and the sweet peat-smoke tang of bananas, and cream in clots, and chocolate.
I give away the satisfactions of food and take desire for food:
I’ll be travelling light to the heaven of revisions.
Why be adipose: an expense, etc., in a waste, etc.?
Something like the body of the poet’s work, with its pale shadows, begins to pare and replace the poet’s body, and isn’t it time?
