in the kitchen of the blacksmith
there are only wooden spoons
his hand pauses to examine the sky
silverware falters
tumbles from the clouds
and rains across the cindered floor
beyond this room
the world remains
flat or not
he questions physics
alchemy
the ability of butterflies
to consume entire forests
free of remorse
wings forming like red clay pots
sometimes
a ballad he hears
beside the patient shore
tule
cattails
the slow laborious flight of a crane
lifting from muddy stumps
this too he carries to his hearth
sheltered in a basket
fine woven
silken as the breast of a goose
whose body he will consume
roasted with tubers
and tasting like a prayer
