it isn’t so bad —
a taste of ecstasy, the world
covered in honey. Even snails scrawl
the names of buddhas with
too much. Pears become
unbearable, wet white flesh so tender
one could perish contemplating
the first taste.
becomes oddly redundant,
attention now like water, absorbed in tree root,
plumbing; even fire hydrants with their red
stubby arms become mandalas, and,
worse, the police siren revving its
wail behind my slow-moving
car sounds like a
wife’s complaints about me
finally sound true. I just bow.
Kiss her slender hands.
Carry the garbage