Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Yellow Cake Frosting

We are muscle flowers in the shape of marzipan.

We are a trick.

We paint comet after comet onto the faces of cakes,

wipe the nebulae off of our fingers, give them names,

call it assemblage. Call it cross-indexing.

It is too early for fondant.


Whitewash makes me hungry. Astronomy does too.

Wherever we are it is soggy. Wherever I am there are mouthfuls.

Last night I dreamed I made you soup in a steel kitchen.

I sat on your floor and glowed.

Gale Thompson

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