On the furthest edge of Heaven,
There is an ocean of spoons,
Unwashed, sticky with the mouths
Of babes, invalids, conquerors.
Spoons. A great multitude of
Spoons.

The pauper's wooden plank:
Barely bowled, yet boldened by knowledge:
That thievery is survival and God cannot
Begrudge a man who desires to live.
That spoon savored the castings
Of trash-heaps.

The fasting saint's ladle:
A virgin spoon, never touched
By the lips of man, for the saint
Supped delirium from
Byzantium's gilded chalice
And that was sustenance enough.

The glutton's gulf of a spoon:
Deep, its sheen dulled
With the acid of a thousand foreign meals,
For that one found God in gastronomy,
And took to heart that “All that groweth,
I have given thee for meat.”
That verse stuffed his arteries till they choked.

On the furthest edge of Heaven,
There is an ocean of spoons.

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