My poem about food as I'm submitting it today:

Thirteen Ways of Looking at Black Beans
Shaking in brown pods,
the blueprints
were for black bean plants.
I was a stomachful,
black beans becoming me
not yet me.
When the Word became dinner,
each black bean was a paragraph.
You whisper you
to me.
You whisper you and refried black beans
to me.
I can’t say which is most honest:
the anger of the hungry
or repentance of the fed;
the gnawed silence
or the gnawed black beans.
The cans arm the pantry,
silos of peace.
The flesh of the black beans
waits unsprouting.
The mercy
within their flesh
prays without voice.
O hungry philosophers,
why await the apple of knowledge?
Do you not see how your black beans
tremor with the plumpness
of the dark earth?
I’d hand cans out to crowds.
I love the love of legumes.
Even this
does not diminish the black bean
upon my tongue.
The soaked black beans, fat and blue,
hide khaki flesh
and other hues.
The black beans fixing nitrogen
on other worlds
drew “alleluia”
from both atheist and priest.
He flew amongst hot white thoughts
atop Platonic cinder cones.
He feared the drowsiness
of the earth
in the weight
of black beans.
The dinner bell is ringing.
The black beans are dense and hot.
It was soup for breakfast.
It was steaming.
It would be steaming
black beans fattening
a corn tortilla.

In trying to write "The End," which I'm still not satisfied with, I had lots and lots of false starts on many sections of the poem. I liked a lot of them, but for various reasons just cut them completely and started anew. Anyway, below, outtakes arranged roughly into order of intended appearance.

Some recorded each night's soliloquy.
We saw visions of no substance, heard sounds of no resonation.

The night darkened as if swollen with water.
The darkness of each night grew riper, then rotted into a sweet and deathly dark.

As, month to month, the moon grew in the sky, so did our number and kind. The earth grew radiantly diverse in countless organic emergences of self: in flurries of conscious forests, nebulae of wafting bird hives. We did play in the ocean depths and the Hephaestian hollows of the magmic earth. Superconductors stretched into a thunderstorm.

Like mercury pooling on felt, one of us would fall into another.

The moon now a vast sky-continent,
floating among the earth's clouds, a dizzying fishbowl closeness at every point.

The shy omnipendent dark materials arrived in thunder, and transatomized:
The garish tinkle of dense matter shattering into infinitesimal light.
The crushing tinkle of matter shattering utterly into perception

The last few separate living things coalescing into one single self, a joyous soil spread over the new supercontinent.

We sought to feed on the light of the moon, but found, instead, a burning otherness, a deepest blister grown into world.

We bent the earth toward our end.
Our vision grew until it met itself on the other side.
We came to an unbounded vision.

Bit by bit, we digested the planet, life making playful war on unlife
until there was only a hare, a ghost, a stiletto,
the tired sunrise ache at our core,
the last diamonds of anything that was ever thing.

As we fell–we, the last heir of earth, an orb of pure vision–
the sky wept and laughed at once.

The ontological alleluia echoes out.
They danced, tangling into one another and then twisting free, the viewer utterly within the viewed.
We enslaved and loved the sky.
And the earth understood the sky, and the earth loved the sky, and the earth fucked the sky, and the earth gave birth to the sky, and the earth fought the sky, and the earth became the sky.

And then the sky fell away.