The Dessert

The orchard clocks run backward through the floor,

Where bruised Macouns float in a lavender sky,

And memory drips like amber from the door

Of kitchens where the seasons go to die.

A copper bowl is spinning on its own,

While gravity forgets which way to pull;

The peelings turn to whispers, overthrown

By cinnamon that drifts in hulls of wool.

The butter melts upward to the ceiling beams,

Where porcelain clouds dissolve in nutmeg rain;

We bake the architecture of our dreams

Inside a crust of old, discarded pain.

Now slice the crust—the golden rind gives way

To galaxies of stewed and glowing fire,

Where yesterday is tasting just like May,

And every spoon retrieves a lost desire.