The Art of Fine Dining

A half-circled sun of yolk --
its soft liquid rolling over-easy    
onto a pineappled-orange horizon    
Wind scrapes the earth  
as a butter knife over toast  
while grape-jellied plumes    
steamed from half-light    
perking-a-pot of Sumatra gold  
Window sheers became banners    
pristine white in surrender;    
caterpillar oceans reflected    
light and shadowed movement    
across the ochred room  
Harbored candles shape-shifted  
dying upon a basin of bed    
and crushed cotton  
damp with perspiration    
Music absorbed as suds  
across a Sakura’d shore  
Our diaphanous musk became  
a sybilline communiqué deciphered  
only by a Baroque engraving  
A flotilla of sixty questions sought  
harbor amid nine answers from  
strategic positions we never imagined  
They didn't fall as darkness or dew  
but held cataleptic in the air    
until the tightening garrot  
encircling our vast armada of bones collapsed --    
swallowing salted breath  
in a wave of white-foamed silence  
Drowned were a thousand    
guttural sounds situated    
between two mouths full of  
nothing now but teeth    
tongues, and taste  
Author's Note
Imaginings 💜

For Case's Nofap 30 Day Poetry Challenge - No 1
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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