Duck fat disarms the broth by lunging for the roof of the mouth
with an eye for entrails smoking the plump thighs of an afterthought
coursing through a vein of roasted turnips and false suns
simmering as nimble as mice, from the tip of a tongue
to a cheek.

At this point; taste is a matter of taste… burning lemons with flammable YearBooks
and MoonPies. golem flotsam like Pinnochio papyrus, spinning a cautionary tale
with a mid-Atlantic accent and smoldering eyes made of spun Copper
and Honey, on tilt in a rainbow of Blue days
knelling at the hem of a virtual cusp
of a Maximum-
coming out
Alive.