love is cake, poetry the deciding knife

sometimes you awake with words on your tongue,

the north wind under my brambled feet,

and though they are your words, 

you are sure dylan thomas has been dream hopping

and hiding words beneath your sleeping pillows. 

sometimes you step into the day

and there is a red wasp taking his last breaths atop a green pecan,

there on the sidewalk at your feet

as they flipflop their way into the sun of the backyard;

you have to sidestep jump to avoid both,

and you understand suddenly the dream warning of brambled feet. 

sometimes there is pound cake for breakfast,

plain, cold from the refrigerator, soothing to your stomach,

and when you cut a fat slice,

the crumbs fall from the knife in the shapes of hearts. 

sometimes the poetry is your skin itself, your alone heart. 

sometimes those crumbs are the tastiest of all.

sometimes you have to pick them up and touch them to your tongue.

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