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.