The cheese on the plate no longer has a sheep attached
but a paddy so lush and warm lingers in the ricey cracker
so sheep and rice in a single breath are quaintly matched
on a coddled Sunday colded for a couch-bound slacker.
Is the bite into the curdled sheep's milk really real or just
a fat filled joy that brings back memories of soaked fields
where little lambies suckled at a perfectly muttoned bust
laid down with cloven fours outstretched to slowly yield
the golden dream of sampans in an iridescent harbor now?
The combining of East and West begins to mouthly meet,
the brain harvests riddles that are woven finger-traps, how
is a thing that was a puzzled thing not so ontologically neat?
The silly why, the endless search for a perfect pull of quiddity
dissipates into rice and milk and an imperfectly tasted lucidity.