In a poem, is where
you name what is not
a cake, a cake.
Picking a classy silver
fork (or what you think it)
through it, a treasure hunter
asks: Now, where is the
carrot? Where is it
buried? In a poem, a carrot
is always buried, waiting
for rabbits to turn
into readers.
A existentialist comes to say:
There is no meaning in this;
what is a carrot cake
without carrot? Or will this be
what remained of us
inside - all greasy black;
but wait, there is still
a few yolky yellow
strips shining. What remains then
is our brightness?
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