A pencil weighs As much as the sky On a rainy afternoon Without much left to say Sullen old moon Refuses to rise The half-lit, oven glow Of a fog-windowed kitchen Maybe bread, maybe pale Glaucous cake, full of holes When satisfactorily baked The skewer clean, the jam Glossy in its violence Incise a few stray lines In the mystery of powdered sugar Illegible, with only That writhing semblance Of half-baked meanings Nevertheless, with a cup Of sweet mild tea Charred baking paper Unfolding like a leaf A worm from the chrysalis In triangles and tall Unstable squares Kind as a smudged and balmy evening To the taste
