Phillip Lieberman on the Larynx
he plucked my Adam’s Apple ripe,
adulating it high enough as to
tear the firmament, the pollution-mingled
faucet pouring itself unconditionally,
and, as if taken aback by the new weight
of its holiness, he lowered it.
“eat the rain”, he related.
it was a cross-breed golden delicious
sucked lip-red in places as deep as the tones
it reached. i gulped it even further down,
back to where the seedlings grew.