I cannot be mythological all the time--every so often, poets must get sappy.


CULINARY EXTEMPORE

the train has no direct route
away from the apricot sliver
of your shoulder.

the thames is brown. the bright
belly of france is a far haunt,
her breath pendulous,
her sinews slim peaches of
light through
cheap kitchen glass.

what remains to pluck
across the cold channel; the metro
clucks off into the tunnel
like a lingering tongue

and the white wine of your bones
shimmers into the dark gullet.
now there is no
dim kitchen jazz,
the tart has limped off
your pomegranate lips.

how can I heat your oven
and get you cooking
when I cannot even find
your scent in a slick clutter of rain.