The Dessert

The kitchen clock dissolves to dripping wax,

Where floating floors reflect an upside-down sky.

We slice the heavy noon with silver tacks,

And excavate the Banana-Pineapple Cream Pie.

A strata of the yellow, crushed and deep,

Where weeping suns are folded into cream,

And crescent moons are sliced and put to sleep

Beneath the heavy surface of a dream.

The crust is memory, compressed and pale,

That crumbles into sand beneath the spoon.

The pineapple weeps a tropical gale,

While floating bananas out-orbit the moon.

We taste the weather of a vanished year,

A confection suspended in twilight’s blue.

The fork leaves ripples in the hemisphere,

Where nothing is real, and the sweet is true.