It does not have to be good

You do not have to wok a hundred chiles

Through immolation on your knees, weeping.

You have only to let the soft loaf of your body

eat what it eats.

Tell me how you prepare, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the dinner goes on.

Meanwhile Fieri and the clogged icons of the airways

are chewing across the landscapes

over the squeeze bottles and the deep freeze

the pizzas and the poppers.

Meanwhile the Achatz, high in the Alinead air

is making foams again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lowly,

the farm offers itself to your imagination,

fat with wild beets, fibrous and exciting–

over and over announcing your place

in the plating of things.