Ars Poetica

[jdowd]

In my mouth the little cracker
crunches like fresh snow
its memory preserved in the red corners of my lips

Later, the last breath of that orange cracker
will rise, up from my stomach, bulging
my throat, pressing outward in Gregorian bliss

Free from its flesh, the morsel,
tiny, meaningless, orange,
will push through windows, under doors.  It will be

Comments

[goldendiscord]

Now I want a cheezit.