Pink tongues and green tastings,
Where do nature’s wandering flavors go?
Rice cake, salt pork, // sliced fish face in a line,
Numbing nostalgia, strange sweetness of wine, // like sunglow.
Stubborn smoke by the pillow, // the bell starts to rust,
Smiles kneaded in pockets, // must, ground down to dust.
Patrons from afar rub their hands // on the spot,
Casting the cattle // and sheep in the pot.

Northern bay leaves and Indian snow,
Reborn from the remix of sound,
Roasted cream sauce makes salvation slow,
Wisdom descends to the ground,
Has no traction to flow.

What is in the pocket? A candy, // a sweet,
Cautious to savor the flavor of years.
Acid and spice, where // the fever dreams meet,
Millstones and grinders, // the buckets, the fears.

Pastures and crowds, // the fair and ice cream,
Five-dollar meal, and the grinding of gears.
Caught in the loop // of a feverish dream,
Trembling, I shed these hot tears.

The newness of twenty, // the pain that will not stop,
It is the heart, beating.
The pulse between lips and teeth,
I try with all my strength, // yet cannot sing a hymn.
But you gently open your mouth, // reaching straight for eternity,
Scattering love upon the world.