“Milk and toast.”

On the kitchen counter she waits:

delicate and raw; pale and melodious.

My crusted dreams carrying this vista

of the real bliss in the kitchen sitting

before my unripe eyes she gores my world.

With one splash, a coy white dive;

all curves into glass- escaping the carton cage.

All fragments of melancholy dispatched in cinders,

and a new tingling begins below my edge

as I sink into the calming coals of the toaster.

Here I feel the deft flames tighten my skin

and my crumbling becomes a hardened rattle.

I see nothing, but flickering of digging fire-

pulling me into their black meddling; smoke.

Too awake for shedding my dreams, I feel

her wet caress in the distance; calling me ready.

My crust stretching blackness, sealing the wait.

As my height gropes air, and I tumble a sigh

my existence of bread unshackled, metamorphed

poised like a prince, fresh from flight, another sigh.

There the glass rests, upon the counter it grips

but an emptiness. A colossal bottomless nothing.

All seeking is shed and my terminal entrails

drift into an unbridled tide of littering pieces

with the falling below, my world tipsy dizzy

until the distance takes my wheat and white dreams.