The white bowls in the orderly

    cupboards filled with nothing.

    The sound of applause in running water.

    All those who've drowned in oceans， all

    who've drowned in pools， in ponds， the small

    family together in the car hit head on. The pantry

    full of lilies， the lobsters scratching to get out of the pot，

    and God being pulled across the heavens in a burning car.

    The recipes like confessions.

    The confessions like songs.

    The sun. The bomb.

    The white bowls in the orderly cupboards filled with blood.

    I wanted something simple， and domestic.

    A kitchen song.

    They were just driving along.

    Dad turned the radio off， and Mom turned it back on