Truth from your mouth means more to me
than striking it rich in a gold mine.
With your very own hands you formed me
from an image of melt-in-your-mouth perfection.
See me — in my woolen strings, stretched
across the fuel bed, contemplating
what you meant by that.
Between the low heat of combustion,
and the failure of your flame
to spread away from the wick,
I feel set up, enough to do a whip
-around, asking “Can you clarify that?”
“Can you sift the cloudy water for
clear, cold fat, for a matter-of-fact
that brooks no inquisition?”
I see you — in serene objectivity, bowed
over the river stone ring, tinkering
above the gravity of the situation.
See me — in my pigskin coat, splayed
up on a spit, hanging
from your mouth.
I see the flame spread, from throat
towards tongue, and lick on a word
that lands on my drum
like brown butter, you are inexplicably
nutty and fragrant, complex in a way
that plain butter just isn’t.
“When will you see me?”