WEBVTT

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This is called In The Root
Cellar, it's a vegetable poem.

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The parsnips, those rabbis
have braided their beards

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together to examine the text.

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The word that engrosses
them is February.

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To be a green tomato wrapped
in the Sunday book section

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is to know nothing.

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Meanwhile, the wet worm
eats his way outward.

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These cabbages, these
clean keepers in truth

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are a row of
impacted stillbirths.

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One by one, we deliver them.

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The apples are easy a butters, a
basket of pull toys and smiles.

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Still they infect one
another like children

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exchanging the measles.

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Oh potato, a wink of
daylight and you're

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up with 10 tentative erections,
how they deplete you.

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Dusty blue warthogs, the squash,
squat for a thump and a tuning.

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If we could iron
them out, they'd

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be patient blue mandolins.

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The beats wearing
their birthmarks,

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they will be wheeled
into the amphitheater.

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Even before the scrub up the
scalpel, they bleed a little.

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I am perfect,
breathes the onion.

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I am God's first circle, the
tulip that slept in his navel,

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bite me and be born.

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