Where is the poet?
He's behind the barn throwing a knife into a board.
Maybe tomorrow he will be calling out to the mountain:
Can't you come closer?
He's counting the days to that tomorrow
When the mountain honors his request.
But until then
It is:
Where is the food?
It's swimming away in the shape of a fish
It's running amuck in the supermarket
Trying to get out of the store.
It's trying to get off of the page,
Out of the photo of the hip couple
Sitting at the little table
Outside a cafe in Paris or Naples.
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