Some Tortillas

after ashbery

These are amazing, each
on top of a neighbor, as though speech
was this transferring of heat and time.

You and I are suddenly
what the tortillas try to tell us,
not what some bread-eater has dreamed up.

Love and touch, yes.
Explain? Hell no,
who needs explanations for this roundness.

I break off a piece
and fold that piece over
to scoop up the beans and eggs, you do the same.

A chorus of smiles, a Texas morning,
these accents seem their own defense,
“Jew no whad I mean, dhon’t jew?”