Less

—cooked by crooked   

math—is more   

than enough.   

For example, the rough   

patch on the roof   

of the mouth we tongue—

a light fixture, chandelier   

of texture—is so much   

more than mere   

canker. And when   

fingering the clasp   

on Father's snuffbox,   

his fine initials   

grate against our   

fingerprints' grain   

like an engraved last gasp.   

Less, being more, makes   

of the tectonic plates   

of molehills   

a mountain ridge   

the way the stark plain   

of the White Album's sleeve   

raises the Beatles' embossed logo   

to the level of topography—

the way tiny things   

can't help being, next   

to nothing, something—

the unanticipated mole   

that makes a one-night stand's   

upturned ass, the last leaf out   

on a limb, the little   

going a long way.