A Plea for Salt

This is somewhere between the raw and the cooked,
between endless oceans and underground mountains.
Stains on roadsides, crystalline veins on asphalt worn
charcoal grey with winters passings. Fountains of angled
edges to granules fit into ceramic owls on dinner tables
booked full for every meal, perhaps just there because

its supposed to be, going through the motions as if
required by law. Rimmed on glass, refined from rock.
Poured into flesh to punish, sprinkled onto food to flavor

stuff of pillars and great flat lakes surrounded with sterility

it is of the earth.

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