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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