[response to “Then, when digested masks settle…”]
// The Law of Second //
“And?” The crack in the flan is solid but soft,
stiff-gelatinous, a cavern crag. Hey Hey My
My playing a radio buzz on busted speakers.
All anyone can do just now is digest, recovering
from overstuffing bits of nothing of consequence
(“AND?” again, like a car peeling out over scratchy-
for-once Paul Simon); maybe a thought or two
seeping like, “How about a mint julep?” “What is
this, the South?” Gazes snake rivers through a
pudding canyon looking, anything but answering.
The condensation beads on the surface and the
sweat has run down–long since–to become a pool
in a ring. Rubber table cloth. Need I mention?
Spotted spoons, clotted milk, and that incessant,
[read the response]