I’ve had it with this chewing,
rat’s teeth on a lead pipe,
a squirrel opening the brain-case
of a black walnut.
I don’t want to chew
like some glassy-eyed ruminant,
bottom jaw going back & forth
in the monotonous rhythm of pestle
Nor do I envy the carnivore’s lot,
so single-minded in its devotion
to messy drippy stinking tangles
of other creatures’ pain, the toxic
rot of its bite.
Chewing is a waste of time.
I want to return to the soup,
a fetus sampling the world
through its belly, a whale
with a mouth like an aeolian harp,
the whole slow song of it fed on krill.