*
 
Dear John, our recipe’s fallen among
          the flour and egg. The measurements
miss their original number and fervor, 
 
a langue franca rolled in raw batter. 
          As a result, we grew gigantic. Living 
makes manifest otherwise intangible 
 
receipts into squab, a mother sauce.
          Into small pots: egg cracked 
over a bowl. We should all know: I 
 
came folded in, folded in. The hands
          that burned on the cookery also undid 
the door-latch, fly on a pair of pants 
 
till more was made and enough was 
          not enough. I grew tall, reaped nests 
from the top branches cradling spit
 
and wood—whole systems in which 
          I play no part. How humiliating. Soon 
I snapped each and every bird between 
 
thumb and forefinger, eating to keep
          cloud-steady, ingredients below yet 
to be combined, the potential chemistry 
                                an undiscovered country. 
 
*
 
Dear Lesley, the gardens here function
          as prelude to the stone monstrosity
they call a fountain and the water is
 
nothing but a tearstain on the cheek
          of this decrepit continent. Holding
up the world can be tiring. If you feel
 
you must, you must. You say you’ve
          grown larger due to overeating, just
hyperbole. Truly we are the smallest
 
creatures in the universe. This is what
          I feel when lounging safely in Italy—
my own country a giant’s forehead
 
pulsing with the rainwater we’ve come
          to call ocean. Those three ships, one
for each state of mind, sail from crown
 
to brow. And you thought it took ages
          to reach paradise! The move was small
as a drop of spray blurring our vision
 
for a moment then melting back into
          the already present river that pours
through us its many gallons per year.