The clock is running over, and an octopus wears my wallet now.
—John Ashbery
bleak
as a canyon
made of parsnips
poised
as a potato
ready to be scrambled
with
all of the fragility
of a dull gray carton
if
your chef’s
side-hustle is pugilism
and he
brings his
professions to the Sahara
a
carafe
of Humpty Dumpty
is
poured
upon the sand
with
panache—
there is no sizzle
but
behold:
The Pacific
