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 “Soon.”
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,
to ask Can you clarify that?
Can you sift the cloudy water for
clear, cold fat?
I see you — in serene objectivity,
bowed over the river stone ring,
pondering the gravity of
your mere existence;
while I hang on your every word,
like a small lamb splayed
on a spit, watching them spread
from throat towards tongue,
until you lick on just one
that lands on my drum,
like brown butter.
Inexplicably nutty and fragrant,
complex in a way
that plain butter just isn’t.
When will you see me?