Sunday Dinner

Lasagna.
Wreck-tangle in layers of cheese,

I add a pound of spinach for extra iron.

It is a production, 

each layer has a plan, to become part of

an edible architexture, an assemblage,
full fromage, flagon, flag off

in red, whine and green.

Read and cook, turning the page,
the fungi’s sizzle

and The Hidden Reality outlines details

of jitters, making energy and arrays.

I stir, it pops, I read, it steams and

condenses sugars.

Put together, my job is done,
I wait
it melts
all together. 

I close my eyes for the first bite,

forgetting all I threw in.

I think I taste nutmeg, but then remember

this often tastes like M-theory.

I must have forgotten the salt. 


Painting by Jacopo Tintoretto, The Supper at Emmaus (1542-43) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hand me downs (II)

The local train blares by

to cause alarm

although familiar, futility gains strength with steam.

With this new engineer at the helm from the rear

he calls *Attention* to his pressures and passages

as though he

the town crier knew the time

anymore.

This whine is the bell vibrating raw gravity-

                           hard to see

coming straight, near, far, coming, going...

All the rest is color coded for us,

              lights and trigger switches

are on the outside, green and red, black and blue

Stop and Go for Simons followers.

The straight path, as the crow flies,

is soft and well worn, even in the sky

                     drawing diameters

in his radii, he is right on a smooth track.

To make it back home for dinner, meatloaf.

To rely on regular things such as

weak forces, sympathy and cacophonies.

Painting by Frits Thaulow, The train is arriving (1881) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.