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Poem	Is it long as a noodle or fat as an egg? Is it lumpy like a potato or ringed like an oak or an onion and like the onion the same as you go toward the core? That would be suitable, for is it not the human core and the rest meant either to keep it warm or cold depending on the season or just who you're talking to, the rest a means of getting it from one place to another, for it must go on two legs down the stairs and out the front door, it must greet the sun with a sigh of pleasure as it stands on the front porch considering the day's agenda. Whether to go straight ahead passing through the ranch houses of the rich, living rooms panelled with a veneer of fake Philippine mahogany and bedrooms with ermined floors and tangled seas of silk sheets, through adobe walls and secret gardens of sweet corn and marijuana until it crosses several sets of tracks, four freeways, and a mountain range and faces a great ocean each drop of which is known and like no other, each with its own particular tang, one suitable to bring forth the flavor of a noodle, still another when dried on an open palm, sparkling and tiny, just right for a bite of ripe tomato or to incite a heavy tongue that dragged across a brow could utter the awful words, "Oh, my love!" and mean them. The more one considers the more puzzling become these shapes. I stare out at the Pacific and wonder -- noodle, onion, lump, double yolked egg on two legs, a star as perfect as salt -- and my own shape a compound of so many lengths, lumps, and flat palms. And while I'm here at the shore I bow to take a few handfuls of water which run between my fingers, those poor noodles good for holding nothing for long, and I speak in a tongue hungering for salt and water without salt, I give a shape to the air going out and the air coming in, and the sea winds scatter it like so many burning crystals settling on the evening ocean.
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