1 bitter melon, seeds and insides removed and cut into thin slices.
4 tablespoons white wine vinegar
2 medium tomatoes diced
2 eggs beaten slightly
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 medium-sized onion sliced
Salt and pepper
Chopped Parsley
3 tablespoons olive oil

Place the bitter melon in a large bowl and sprinkle liberally with salt. Add white wine vinegar and let stand for six minutes. In a large pan, sauté the garlic and onions in oil until the garlic is golden brown and the onions are translucent. Add the tomatoes and cook until soft. Add the bitter melon and cook for 4 minutes. Pour the eggs over the mixture and stir until eggs are done and bitter melon is tender. Season with salt and pepper. Garnish with parsley and serve with white rice.

They are useless, there is nothing
to be done with them, no reason, only

the finding: letting myself down holding
to ironwood and the dry bristle of roots

into the creek bed, into clear water shelved
below the outcroppings, where crawdads spurt

through silt; clawing them out of clay, scrubbing
away the sand, setting them in a shaft of light

to dry. Sweat clings in the cliff's downdraft.
I take each one up like a safecracker listening

for the lapse within, the moment crystal turns
on crystal. It is all waiting there in darkness.

I want to know only that things gather themselves
with great patience, that they do this forever.

Love is a rainbow that appears
When heaven’s sunshine lights earth’s tears.

All varied colors of the light
Within its beauteous arch unite:

There Passion’s glowing crimson hue
Burns near Truth’s rich and deathless blue;

And Jealousy’s green lights unfold
‘Mid Pleasure’s tints of flame and gold.

O dark life’s stormy sky would seem,
If love’s clear rainbow did not gleam!

Here lies a lady of beauty and high degree.
Of chills and fever she died, of fever and chills,
The delight of her husband, her aunts, an infant of three,
And of medicos marvelling sweetly on her ills. 

For either she burned and her confident eyes would blaze,
And her fingers fly in a manner to puzzle their heads—
What was she making?  Why, nothing; she sat in a maze
Of old scraps of laces, snipped into curious shreds—

Or this would pass, and the light of her fire decline
Till she lay discouraged and cold as a thin stalk white and blown,
And would not open her eyes, to kisses, to wine;
The sixth of these states was her last; the cold settled down.

Sweet ladies, long may ye bloom, and toughly I hope ye may thole,
But was she not lucky?  In flowers and lace and mourning,
In love and great honour we bade God rest her soul
After six little spaces of chill, and six of burning.