The Dessert

The autumn sky dissolved to liquid brass,

We baked the crescent moon beneath the glass,

Stirred amber memories in a copper bowl,

And grated nutmeg through a phantom’s soul.

The stove became a hearth of ancient dreams,

Where time unravelled at the heavy seams.

A clock ticked backward through the falling leaves,

While phantom spiders spun their sugar-webs.

A slice of velvet dusk upon the plate,

It weighed the anchor of a shifting fate.

We tasted ambergris and autumn rain,

And bit into the geometry of pain—

For when the fork broke through the orange crust,

The parlor crumbled into glowing dust,

And we were children floating on a stream

Of spiced illusion, baking in a dream.