on a silver platter
with a sprig of time
and a wedge of lime. Some

have soured. Some have
burned. Coating cloaks
the cracks in a sheen of

spinach green. But underneath
it crumbles. He bumbled
the whole thing from cutting

the strings of the braciole. Like Holly
to the cat. I lay flat on my back.
Growing lean from eating his

words. I've cleaned up
serving hors d'oeuvres.