A silver bell, a nonbutler in suit
for dessert triangle tongues
arrayed in icing, baby blue

how blazed onions taste burning in the mouth
the cabbage scalloped ridges
evoking no mollusk.

A few nude potatos
sprawled like roadblocks.
This is the same thing

except better.
The frisson
the poisson
I cannot eat my lunch in peace

by the hum of the refrigerator.
Disturbed by so many thundering candles
putting their feet in my garden.

The mussels in foreignlanded stupor
taint today with its red tide,
its salt frisked odor
My incriminating white hands

tied at the roots to a red geranium heart,
shell, heart.
Who can decide?

Do not remember the brief dip in
honeypot of our fingers.
Life is a fractal of cauliflower
budding up and up,

an excess of polynomials, each
with its each
own zero to solve.

Vanity involves freedom
I know that now.
I should break all

the mirrors in our house.
At night the starfish is a Pisces
banging the glass of our living room

I plop a flower into my mouth
and smack my lips. The fork twinkles,
a domestic harpoon.

Chen Gu