A striated baked cinnamon toast serving
Cream rises to the top like smoke;
cinnamon ash a metaphysical crucifix
crossed fingers, bitten lip, a lemon
sucked in pleasure from the bedpost,
he is winking at her again, phone to
the curve of her ear, he moves her
hair away from her chin, bones
reshaped in aluminum, the brittle
shine of gloss in the haze of noon,
chewing on the orb of an apple core
of busy at preoccupation, novellas
in the French style, dog eared suite jackets,
a disco theme explodes from the tiniest
corners of the room as a lost bee
flutters through the house like a heartbeat
unable to get out.