The soup in the pot has grown cold. I do not ladle it from the top of the caldron, Nothing but chopped nettles floating there. But I will not scrape for the dregs either, Nothing but fish gills And eyes boiled out of their heads that goggle at me. I will eat some nothingness. And be glad. I will suck the meat off the bones of memory And taste the brittle skeletons of ancient love Rejoicing there is neither sweet nor sour To tempt me now. Only daily bread. Reason enough not to die.