(with apologies to Mark Strand)

I devour words, whole stanzas
by the glare of the refrigerator light
which makes all things seem appetizing
even WAR and FLIGHT and DISCORD
 

LANGUID falls into the low-fat yogurt
and I eat it raw. EMBRACE lands with a splat
in the olive dish, and down it goes
 

UNRAVEL leaps from its perch between
GENTLY and MADNESS and
plops into the maraschino cherries.
I finger it out, and swallow fast.
 

In among the mustard jars, I spy
LUST and PLASTIC and CHATTER.
Greedy, I grab them all, knocked
back with a gulp of beer.
 

The salad crisper cannot hide
DANCE and GODDESS, or is it
GOODNESS? No matter, I gobble
with both hands.
 

With sticky fingers, I capture
EARTH and SPRING and PURPLE,
and call them my main course.
 

LEVITY bobs on the surface
of the milk pitcher— but not for long.
Near the baking soda,
I eye SOMERSAULT . . .
 

(it’s not a verb, you know, but
it should be). I proclaim it a verb
as I lick my lips and toss it back.
 

To the hum of the freezer,
I savor my dessert—MAN and
EGG and CHANCE. I am full now,
 

and I close the door, sinking
the kitchen into darkness, REASON
still stuck to the raspberry jam.