Making poems is how I take revenge
on the uncle who groaned
“Spare me the details.”
Even though it’s like
pulling quarters out of a dead man’s ear.
Not talking exactly, or even singing.
More like listening.
Using words in order to remain silent.
I place my little loaves and fishes of language
on the table beside the chipped cup.
I want you to eat, to drink.
(from The Perfection of Zeros)