You made pyjama soup Lemon, eggs, basmati In a witchy broil Sleeve dipped thrice for auguries The way Macbeth’s crones crowed A particularly unpleasant hunger Soft as eyes, and sour sweet In transit A spot of black Against, slick-bright An unknown planet A veined eye still watching Toast mostly blacked and cut In strips thin as a walking forest Smeared on your lips The glistered, noisome mask Of any revenger’s tragedy The battle almost done Just dregs and crumbs Of midnight’s salt & pepper folly
