Poem for Toasters

Sweet garden toast, red dot flash--red-hot memory. Red mist. The painting of grease. The grease pants. Sticks of calm turbulence, constant rain companion. New faces are breaking. Feeling grateful but tired for the earthy sweet earthy sweet. What rain does a lot of: fall.

Parable: the eagle mistakes itself for a plateau of ginger and feathers so an appalling sense of satisfaction is enveloped by anxiety. Whistle while I float on my back. Are you for licking, you? Lint on the shades, sad now for the time I can't get back. What suffering? You’re soaking in it.