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.