I reveled in form: drove at 4 am
to Safeway for one carrot,
bought grapes instead. The cashier asked
how I was, as if we were parrots.

I hid in my dorm, calculating
another Feynman diagram because I could,
doing what I mastered because I mastered it.
But grad students were supposed to discover,

not rehash, so I sunk as if negative capability
were a raft of sixty-six sticks set free
and washed downstream alongside turtles
who couldn’t swim, like I couldn’t swim.

My grip on reality slipping, I found myself
with eight spotted fish—or one octopus—
four paws, a tail, and stout dog snout,
knowing no wrath of grapes nor even

that bacon wraps are black cat bad
and butchers use lights to bloody their cuts.
It took seven years before I managed
to shore, where I walked walked walked

a beach too replete to sleep on
but not enough to feed me, the sheep
having eaten all the carrots, parrots
all the seeds, grad studs all the grapes.