You’re a crock pot full of thick forgotten roots --
a secret soup, gray meat and gristle, shreds long bled
of savor, taste: slowly cooked to waste and mush,
in which what once had been the flavor and the rush
of life is now the faintest tainted memory. Too much
has fallen inward to the middle of the mass. Somebody’s
asked what passed – what made it fall. Somethinggentle in the call. Perhaps it’s time to say it all.