[When gluttony is less than ruinous]

When gluttony is less than ruinous we

      give it milder claim. Never

was there enough of what we wanted.

      We named this Comfort, we

saw our fame inside a statue carried by

      its juggernaut. Never were you

crushed so as you were on that day let

      me tell you, it was far beyond

what you say so far, here, so far out on

      this little cape you call

Tantrum.

      You do not even, as once

you would, go low tide out to take some

      clams, go past the cove–lot to

the lower appendix of there where you

      could walk and have your fill

far shamelessly. Indoors, there’s a box

      with your x–actos, each one

rounder than the first, sister of the next,

      not what you think. It reads:

faith slips and laughs and rallies, that

      is what the little saw is for,

the plane, the red–handled exactness of

      the wish for world beyond flat

conclusion.

      You go to sleep tonight to dream

the little wooden box, your father with the

      kit’s own forceps, wishbone

widening your mouth, urging it down—

Knock it off. Quit it. Cut it out.