Cooking and sex, sure, but also
plunging into it, the page.
Like a scissor. Not a field
to pepper but maybe
plough. An ocean to cut.
In poems I want to call it
the sea. Something blue
as far away as health;
but it's green, it can't
be far away because it stretches
everywhere. Inside it
it closes over you.
No seam. Bob and rise.
It breaks on you and up
you go up
