On the Joy of Writing 360 Degree Sentences with Li-Young Lee and T.S. Eliot

Thomas, the crab
grows old he 
grows old
comes scuttling 
meek every week 
to a room full 
of women
and plants himself
properly
measures everything
for the scope
of afternoon tea
while whispers waft
harried as fleas
chased by swatters—
they do not 
want him there,
and this proves first
impressions
are often correct,
because to resist such
tsunamis will make
a man into sushi 
toppings—for God’s
destination 
ever was a child’s,
and God’s
elastic mind
lets me start over
when peaches
fall from the bag
and the blossoms
are gone.
Li-Young Lee,
why interpret joy in this
failure and decay,
with darkness rising at
every passing step,
fear collecting
as light through
the nimble stitches
of dust—don’t you shake,
and tremble,
thus etherized?
Thomas, such words,
seeming unfortunate
fortunate, do not 
tell truth 
and only point—sir,
I can no more drink
the word water
than feel the word
fear, but when I 
sprawl on a pin,
wriggle on a wall,
words are always there,
as when pulling
the last crop of cabbage—
the ground was cold,
my feet so warm,
and I planned
something for mother—
and ask me where 
was I Thomas—
was the truth
in those words, or
was I making it up 
for you riding
the back of your crab
“Mr. Prufrock”
in a salon
in London with uppity
women who will not
sing to either of us
talking
of Michelangelo
to put us off?
Li-Young Lee your point
is well received,
perhaps I should 
modify my beliefs.
Thomas, your wit
is amazing.
Lee—You really think so?
Don’t take my word for it—
everywhere you look,
in ten-thousand directions,
you untangle long locks
and need no answer 
from me—flow
and making return,
the fruit of Eden 
rots in the ear
of listening night
bending down
to hear your lost childhood,
struck like a lantern’s
match gone out,
leaving a fixed mark
that will move
with the coming
of the waters—
my gaze to cloud
the computer screen
dividing the room
where she undresses,
the bottoms 
of her trousers
rolled, sucking
on a peach.