When Baking a Cake

Outside must be azure.
and bloated old-woman leafs aching
thin-steamed to rustle away from the branch.

You must have an olive in your glass.

Pulp from exotic fruits must be ladled
into the mixture,
your fingers must be blocks of ice,
and the wind must be moving the earth
about so rapturously that you will confuse it with remembrance.

You must think you know yourself completely;
otherwise, your falsehood will burn
into the swollen color at the nape of your neck.

You must gaze intently
at the raw red all around you; you
must realize that by dawn it will
have faded from all eyes except your own.

You will have to chip your hands away from the heat.

The skin on your arms will
slide off with the water, but because
you have done what you did
you will feel no pain.

The dough will rise,
naked,
before adornment.