Wayne Clifford. The Exile's Papers: Part Three: The Dirt's Passion Is Flesh Sorrow. Erin, Ontario: Porcupine's Quill, 2011.
1Gran told me we eat a peck, but grit
2puts most off, or whiff of rot. For the willing,
3tones of apple, berry, sedge; the stiff
4rudiments of sticks and stones that one,
5at first, might expect to gag on;
7timothy pulled stalk straight succulent.
8Then subtleties, faint pretensions of what lives
9collect, mostly unbragged, beyond the taint
10of history's spilled blood, too much to cry
12 sweat of passions or labours, beery
13piss, and such perfumes of our beastly
14fashions as do deny the commonplace
15dead, the bottom note, salt of earth.
16Acquired, yes, but as a last meal, worth.
RPO poem Editors
Poem used with permission of the author.