Less
by Jason Guriel

—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.