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Submerged Grape
Eux, comme un vil sursaut d`hydre...
Mallarmé,
Le Tombeau d`Edgar Poe
The world is swaying on a laden platter
and whoever can't afford to buy a table,
slides off like over ripe wine grapes.
Tomorrow it'll be too late to see which
starter the paper war has brought us to.
Our tongue is long, an unending,
harmless snake winding between our hands,
roasted or unroasted from every side,
piercing its way through broken breads
& you are surprised at how
way beyond hunger
the sunken captain ushers his commands.