David Levine

This Food is Every Food

 

You weigh tonight's dinner against our failing magnitude.

 

I don't want to chew on wood. This meal is missing my

fume and flare.

 

Dessert is a block of carbon. This is how we make the

soup.

 

I am boiling my empathy. I am catching breath that isn't

mine. Out beneath the hedges, you shove soil in your frown.

David Levine

If This Were Every Morning, We'd Be Alright

 

I doubt this is a heart attack.

 

No, really. I doubt this is a heart attack.

 

The whip that is your mouth sucks on a stone.

 

I can't find the intimacy of milk. Snow becomes wonder.

 

When the white sets in, the trees will smile back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © David Levine. White Whale Review, issue 4.1