Cooking

I found that the nothing from trying too hard,
spreading too thin,
is like not enough egg whites
and the whole batch is flat.

I give each pearl as I find it,
hopefully imperfect
like that snatch of music
that doesn’t keep on key,
like honey bees fed weeds,
like cheese that is moldy
in a strangely delicious kind of way.

Today’s art is a circle of white
with zero inside;
a canvas of snow,
a painting of very nearly clear water
except for that one bubble,
a kernel of an idea
floating off to the side.
If I add some salt and pepper

and a little flour to thicken,
steam up my kitchen
with sauces and mixes,
will there be
some soup with the biscuits?

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