Your eyes are peas.
Boil them up quickly,
With no thought,
And place them on the side of a faded browning plate
With something else:
A breadcrumbed Roman nose,
Or a hairy ear wrapped in pancetta,
Drizzled in some sort of fancy vinegar.
To oo and ah and blah blah blah.
The peas roll out the hours
And the minutes
And the seconds
And their roll rocks out a steady lift-music beat
As they frantically try not to
By your fork.
And who can blame them?
Your stomach is a frigid tomb
Full of miscellaneous displeasing detritus,
A furnace fuelling a factory which makes
At least that is what your eyes tell me.