How does a beautifully crafted pizza ensure a fine poem is forthcoming?

First, what beautifully crafted pizza? To cornmeal crust add smoked salmon, tomatoes, goat cheese, olives. This tastes as fine to the mouth as a fine poem would.

A good meal ensure conversation.
What is a poem if not conversation?

How does the refrigerator influence a poem?

Opening.
Seeing.
Tasting.
Touching.
Arranging color.

What one word is shared by food & poetry?

What to do when the dish and the poem miss the mark?

The mouth, the ear understands failure. Mentions it and moves along. Dwelling on the less-than never invites abundance.
And what is writing, what is a fine meal if not abundances. Rainbow chard being an extravagance.

A few days ago, I roasted kale. Didn't work. Neither did the lines of poetry that morning. Discarded, both. Looking forward to what the next remodel of leftovers will issue.

Hue. What is a truly ekphrastic poetry about hue?

Is this another way to say, "And if the eggplant weren't purple?" Of course, that invites the retort, "And what of the albino aubergine?"

Hue is intrinsic to a poem. A poem is intrinsically taste & color and the sound of each. And all.

How does the shape of a dried pear influence that of a poem?

Not the shape as much as the level of unexpected sweetness. Yet balanced. Nourishing. Poems can have the same effect in the mouth.

Regarding shape, some poems appear deflated as a piece of dried pear and as the latter, a such-shaped poem can be unexpected and mighty sweet.


WHILE WAITING IN THE KITCHEN FOR A POEM TO BE REALIZED, YOU REALIZE THE SHAPE OF A DRIED PEAR MUST BE ALTERED

she took
a pair
scissors
cut the dried
pear
bits
& pieces
placed
in small
(very)
bowl
inverted
thus
a mound
appears
on white
plate
befriending
the perfectly
ripened
cheese

What is the most prevalent hue among vegetables and poems?

No single hue can describe.
Nothing singular about perspective.
The eye makes a plural of the singular.

What connection between asparagus and the unwritten poem?

Anticipation. Looking forward with glee to the advent of plentiful asparagus in the markets. Knowing it won't be long and the waiting, rewarded. The mouth knows such things.

Sometimes there's a specific moment when you know the next poem will be begun. Sometimes with glee. Always with a sense of expectation.

For sure, dread in either asparagus or poem-making.