The mystery of wheat germ, pale tendrils,
propaganda pulses, a yolk that binds -
this rawness grates. My preference for frills
of steak fat served in dollops, trumps the mind's
high planes, the yoga zone no match for gills
of trout grilled crisp. A buttered loin spellbinds
more perfectly than beauty - not less my own,
a blade to coax the fillet from the bone.