Three herring in a hillock,
as the Patuxet had done.
Three spokes of a wheel.
Three eyes,
three mouths in conversation
guard the corn
that grows up through the wheel.
Three herring in a hillock,
as the Patuxet had done.
Three spokes of a wheel.
Three eyes,
three mouths in conversation
guard the corn
that grows up through the wheel.
Saltless
Sealess
Carrying nothing I might need
That Jules Verne would be there
came as no surprise,
but Jacques Cousteau?!
The sushi was lovely,
but the gin was watery
and hard to see.
I close my eyes and try again
Many a reasoning unreasoning sow.
He himself is heir to the jackass,
to his regret.
The barnyard reeks of natural
and unnatural failings we’d call sin
were that word, too, not joined
to the general disrepair.
As the other rises.
They wave as they pass,
as busdrivers do.
And people climb inside.
They drink a cup of cloudy soup
and watch the pies go by.
A carrot.
Deep in the ground.
It went the other way.
Not the plucky way to the table,
but its own way, down the Solomon
and up the Ganges.
I didn’t like,
Boston Baked Beans.
The man, he couldn’t help
I didn’t like
those beans.
Thy quaking tree —
Thy bells of consecration