It is fine, in fact maybe even
Desirable to feel—I have a shopping cart
Food—full, knocks us aside like branches.
I feel February striving to end.
Everyone knows, in March
It comes together—
Vegetables look like aliens spawning in jars;
I think of the woman who sells cow heads.
I haven’t yet learned kindness,
But rather, relief and half-breathing.
I shop for mushrooms, leafy greens,
The endless rigmarole of feeding.
I wonder why awareness has become
My ending, a cracked door,
A composition. When did my body
Learn to be so composed?
It is fine—I learn to read the symbols.
Out of my mouth comes no meat, only sound.
I am another, and I must admit, it’s nice
To understand not a word around me—in the static
I hear wisdom—it takes awhile to come back, and
You know, everyone gets given eventually.