Day 29 2
I realise too late, I have no recipe to hand down To my children I have no recipe, Handwritten , flour marked Shiny paged with butter In an old red folder. I have a thousand poems But these are no use for eating Unless they are- Read when tired or empty, Perhaps they make a kind of method, sense A process you can follow, no, a story, bones and all. But can a story feed us? Sometimes- In this way I kid myself all the time taken typing wasn't wasted When I might have practised another kind of alchemy , when I might have inherited And transposed memories of taste and hunger, happiness- This recipe for recipes