This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a rondel. Listen to the audio for an important clue on how this is intended to be read.

If you with your fingers will feed me bologna
I with my fingers will feed you bologna
And pickles, and string cheese, and sardines, and macaroni
And those strange Finnish licorice bombs that smell of ammonia

And we will collapse in tyrosine catatonia
And listen to a slow stringy tune by Albinoni
As you with your fingers feed me bologna
And I with my fingers feed you bologna

And after all the pickled eggs and Egglestons I’ve shown ya
And the pictures we’ve taken, helped by Leitz, Zeiss, and Sony
And the philosophical discourses on lingam and yoni
Our eyes will be level: you won’t own me, I won’t own ya
And we with our fingers will feed each other bologna

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