Seven days

Monday — Moon What can one say of the moon? O I dunno... Tuesday — Cheese These airy, artful membranes, Drowned, hung, quartered Hard-curdle lactic lung Dairy: in its every fold There’s fluid involved. Wednesday — Bread Both this and most bread is a lung of yeast Frozen in heat at its height of inspiration: That flat bread there has expired. Thursday — Thirst Like a hole, Fill it up and it’s gone— But not for long. Friday — Fruit If all fruit is sex, then an orange is the sun And on a tree, or in a net, There are many, many suns. The top-down view of an apple is an anus With a longing stem poking out at you: O just shut up and eat! Saturday — Olive Oil I love olive. I love olive’s oil. The best olive oil comes from the love olives And is mostly sold in drums Not themselves unlike lungs Which, when breathing out their all, Make their thin tin sing. Sunday — Sun What can one say of the sun? O There’s one.

Dominic Zugai