Bless these shrimp from Sing Hing Restaurant
that I am about to eat,
that spent their life, hopefully,
jetting about
in odd, propulsive motion
without minds
and before language.

Oh you little shrimp
who involuntarily
died for me,
make me,
like the intelligent whale,
able to change you
into song.

Homage

A series of conversations about breaking stuff.

"I really don't want to talk about this."

"Fine. Okay," said Kate. This was just last night. Long silence for a phone conversation, maybe ten seconds, maybe even fifteen or twenty. Not twenty. But long. Maybe fifteen.

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