Nothing is provisional, when the summoned thought
of you inspires certain ever-afters. I should cool down
on the step outside. For there’s much to be learned
from the precocious nature of baking, its generous swell
dependent on correct measures of heat, ounces and sifts.
I poise at the oven door. Perhaps we’re just correct.
Or incorrectly stirred to sublime effect. Whatever;
I’m stupid with the minutes you’re near to me,
my expansion of arms at your arrival, the clasp
towards you. I rustle like roast potatoes
shaken; tell me it’s the sound you’re listening for.