Whisk-er

The enchant of the whisk

Whipping the stars into the frothy sky,

Leaving them to be scraped from the sides of the bowl

Come the yellow glaze of sunset,

Will flay the ragged flesh

Which lay rotting there in its dignified bakery

Rising until fresh and smelling of all things calm

And sweet, but a gentle sweetness

Which slides like satin across your skin,

Leaving but a smile at its scent

To arrive again and cut the breath of two entangled short.