The Dessert

The kitchen ceiling drifted like a cloud,

While bruised globes simmered in a copper sea—

Sun-warmed gold and midnight, bruised and proud,

Boiling down to quiet alchemy.

The apricot wept amber on the stone,

A translucent tear of forgotten July,

While blackberries hummed a deep, bassophone,

Swallowed alive in the vault of the pie.

I rolled the sky out thin upon the board,

Dusting the comets from the maple wood,

And sealed away the secrets of the hoard,

Baking the bad hours into something good.

Through glass that melted softly at the edges,

I watched the galaxies crisp into crust;

We bury summers under heavy pledges,

And watch the sweet fruit crumble into dust.