Last night's roasted

The poem doesn't fear the soft surrealism of American poetry that blunts the blue serrated edge jagging through alternating black and green landscapes
The safe surprises that tug with baby teeth at the French fell seams of the red parachute in the oblivion sky
The poem trusts what will endure or else it does not care
While the poet frets, warped guitar, and the poet stews, last night's roasted carrots and red potatoes.