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P O E T R Y
by Gary White
| The Language of Soufflé
The journey beyond oneself
Wants bliss to count for something.
Transcendence is not so impaired
That it cannot speak soufflé.
It is a language of delicate implosions
Writ in whispers across our inner sky.
The lips pirouette and the buds leap
In savory circles around that swallowed Eden.
Whose qualities assure us of better government
Through the alchemist's use of flame and butter.
And whose slang includes us in an exalted tongue
That enlivens and leaves us more nimble of spirit
As if tastes were high notes, and dining Being's chance to sing.