who no longer trusts seascape grit.
He purses plump and rose-red lips
while fingering wooden beads
both fat and wet, edible as homesickness.
He cares about his Jesus, snow white doves,
and whatever came before the wailing
of something as much a plea as a cry
behind bars. The septic stream that tastes
like any heaven anywhere is just one block south
of the high-rise selling confections to hungry
workers like a badger on a snake. “Don’t think
you know what I know about hot meals
and warmth,” he says, then grabs a spatula,
turns red in the face, flips another pie.
“Remember childhood?” he asks, knowing
that we do. “Remember childhood.”
(To learn more about "The Allness of Everything," click here.)