Angel’s food

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