Grace observed, the table stretches.
I am at the yawning end thinking
of pie. That what is sweet
rots, the bloom of pumpkin
into rum blots thought if thought
were ink. But to write is not to eat.
Who is thanksgiving? Whose
dinner was provided in trust and prior
to subsequent slaughter? I am pilgrim
wandering through family members who
won't last until spring, choosing a guest
to hunt down later in the year.