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

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