The toasted sourdough lands hot in my fingers,
lifts itself up with my hands,
taking me up to my senses
where heat meets skin
and air breathes in.
How strange:
who celebrates the glory of life?
Images compete.
Reflections in a mirror.
Mere words: second hand, third hand.
A knife and butter,
honey oozing from a ***
crisp, hot, soft, then yeastly sweet,
salty and sour till all that’s left is an echo of heat,
of buttered toast between my fingers.
Two dogs beckoning at my feet.
Images compete.
Mere words.
Second hand.
Third hand.
Reflections in a mirror.