What remains of nature But this
The table with its thin film of ash and crumb
The floor beneath The translucent shells of the insects
The single plant twirling its long vines against the wall
No noise like true wind
But the fan, turned outward, muttering
as we sit by the window
watching the sun light up one cloud, and then, the next
We close our eyes What we see shimmers in colors
that warp from red to blue and briefly Silver
The meat that sits on your plate exuding its thin pool of blood
Will taste less like flesh than you expected. It will taste good.
As you swallow the first bite you will feel the chewed gristle
proceed at a leisurely pace through your gullet
When did you last kill to eat? No, it doesn’t matter
You have never killed to eat And you never will.
