go into the kitchen
fling the cupboard doors asunder
grab at the packets of food rip open
wok-ready noodles oatcakes a bucket of peanut butter
(should anyone challenge you
say that this process is the opposite of
waste)
sink your whole palm in
the Nutella or whatever your poison wear
the packets of pasta like crunchy mittens
open tins of chickpeas butterbeans
delve your fingers into cans like legumey
earthworms questing whatever you have
feel it on your fingertips do not wash
your hands between foodstuffs allow
there to be aquafaba moistening the dried
fusilli acknowledge the oats in the teabags
bear witness to the contamination
as you touch each raisin welcome each crinkly
story at your fingertips their life in earth
their full moon harvesting their desiccation
feel yourself wither in the vivacious sun
then become processed if you do not know
what a nutmeg is allow it to speak through
the dark ridges of its grated hemisphere
smear your hand across an untouched week
in your diary when you reach that time
you will register the emanating odour
then think about BICYCLES
their mechanisms & textures their character & potential
if you have a bicycle go & touch it all over
tickle under its mudguards stroke its oily rims
wipe these too across your diary returning
to today’s pencilled appointments next time you notice a bicycle
or whenever you travel or think about travelling
journey between mechanisms & food in your mind
eat every meal like a cycle
up a severe gradient
see each bicycle as a last meal
keep in mind always the beginnings of things