In every bowl there’s a howl hidden,
a cracked moon, a watery shiver.
In every glass a palace,
in every pot a broth, a salt,
in every beaker a shriek of frantic molecules:
words that alight in the mind
just before sleep, like birds
coming to roost in that copse
that feeds the wild wood
& its one good bowl.

11 Replies to “Reception”

  1. This one is so fun to say and say.

    I love that first line. I love how bowl hides howl’s owl, makes it ole. Great tug there.

    “In every glass a palace”: unforgettable.

  2. Following on Peter’s comment — The eye rhyme of “bowl” with “howl” amplifies the undertone of “bowel;” and the vowel of “copse” puts pressure on the last vowel of the poem, again reverberating with “bowel.” Bowels as another kind of receptacle for feed and sound. A poem for the autumn equinox: equal spellings for different sounds received by the ear and guts.

  3. Gorgeous indeed. I love the cracked moon, the watery shiver. A lonesome enso of a poem. There’s an interesting almost-loop that really makes that metaphor work for me, there at the end of the poem. The way the copse feeds the wood and then the one good bowl almost feels like a circle but not quite. thanks.

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