Perhaps, a poem is informed (benefits from?) the tradition of the heirloom. Something considered important, familial, and passed down as a treasured, physical object. Heirloom thoughts? A poem most becomes a physical object when it is spoken. When its words & spaces, heard. When it is passed around in space & time. And its taste? Varied as the tongue receiving; as the ear listening.
Heirloom food? Well, tomatoes, of course. Their names are poems in-and-of their brave & satisfying colors. Black Plum, Brandywine, Sungold Cherry, Cherokee Purple, Green Zebra, Amish Paste, Pineapple. Put down the pen; put down the paper. Get out the olive oil, basil, & black pepper. Perhaps, sea salt. Yes, bread.
last night a lump of butter
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then splashed with clam juice
then heated up with clam bits
then all this on spaghetti
steaming with butter and
hard cheese
oh: dad in his kitchen after work
all tired and trying to talk