the sun the rosy dumpling

puffing on the windowsill

or have i been watching an actual dumpling

gargling some of its sweet broth

i’ve surrendered one eye to the poet

there is a woman that makes

distance a mystery to me

one moment a fish is delivering

the moon in its jaws

its imprisoned eye is weeping

in the next moment they are

dabbing it dry to feed me

the pulp of its cheek

meat splashes over my chin

i am nothing more than a great bib

to map the years

the years have fed a great dough

down my throat

i am waiting for the nurse to come

feed me this bit of sun

if it be one bite or the eternal

bright bone to gnaw

-dedicated to Professor John C. Hawley