Don’t I butter myself up

the same as any other poet?

Heavy-headed

swipes with the back of a spoon

full of moonlight.

Pressing hills and valleys

into flat terrain,

making crumb.

.

Don’t I fall like any other poet?

Butter side down,

shine lost to the ground,

anything

anything

to stick the landing.

.

When I can’t think of what to write, I start with butter.