poem viii. (in three letters)

(c)
spaghetti made fresh, with two eggs
zucchini and yellow squash,
julienned

precarious
porcelain blade


olive oil
that tastes like mown grass
the sun
and dandelion cordial

a hunk of parmesan i got for free
in the farmer's market
where that amish boy blushed and
squeezed my hand
over the counter

garlic, my first lover

and

lusting
for fresh basil
from these barren winter gardens