The Dessert

The kitchen clock dissolves to dripping wax,

While ruby moons bleed down the porcelain bowl.

A summer afternoon caught on the racks,

Where time forgets to turn, and skies grow whole.

Upon the sill, the sun is boiling thick—

A glaze of amber heavy on the glass.

We stir the past with an acacia stick,

And watch the phantom generations pass.

The berries murmur secrets of the dirt,

Of root-webs tangled in the turquoise deep,

Where earth remembers every ancient hurt

And cradles ruby teardrops in its sleep.

Then suddenly—the crust begins to rise,

A floating continent of biscuit-foam,

Unfolding slow beneath the paper skies,

A jagged island where the heart comes home.

It bubbles crimson through the golden cracks,

A slow volcanic pulse of sweet regret.

The spoon goes in, and through the temporal gaps,

We taste the sun that hasn't set us yet.