Ode to pale tongues and the two sliding
across from one another accomplish. You're
a dish only warm by
now, and you're not
relished, nor do you comply,
nor do you aspire unknowingly. I can
only look at the cold plate for so long before I send it back and forget
about it's indistinct smell: soapy
bubble pear and shampoo. Food,
food, food is all
you are and do. The oven alarm's bound to whistle,
and when it does, maybe then the lemon
cake baked in forgiveness won't taste like bitter
lemon, but like the sourness of spoiled cherries.
Content with suspicion rather
than your childish vernacular poisons
the well of wishful thinking; only that rock
container never held enough
fluid to know
it was holding anything worth lost dimes
and nickels,
flipped from faithfully fattened
thumbs. Forgiveness overflows bountifully
out of other wells like water from a geyser, when
yours is dryer than dry,
wider than wide,
and dyed in prior thoughts
like friends letting friends
stumble into a car drunk.
A kiss is a kiss is a kiss is a kiss is a kiss is a kiss
and yes, oh yes, hiss like
the scent of rusty
lusting ruse. Meanwhile I'll look
under a matured yew to find
ingredients. I'm sure
there's a recipe in the bark
wood. The core,
surprisingly damp inside.
I look around anxiously
when I know better. And I know I know better
than this: "it needs more time."
