A fork and a spoon lie together
to spoon and to fork.
E = MC squared says the spoon.
I don't have the energy says the fork.
Forgiveness? says the spoon.
It is as if we lie on a vast table
says the fork. Useless.
The spoon measures a dose.
Sink to your knees. The fork
submits. The past is prescient.
The fork clasps the spoon.
Of course, says the spoon.
It's all about portion control.
Let's sleep says the fork.
Weep? says the spoon.
The spoon keeps busy until
the fork is sorry too, like the song.
Make me toast says the spoon, and snappy.
The fork says Who turned out
the light? Birds begin singing
their favorite: O moon, O moon.
The table was laid, says the spoon,
not me. Tines, my dear, are everything,
says the fork. My tines are retired.
They spoon through course
after intercourse, the hunger being
incurable, inconsolable.
