The bowl’s had its eyes closed for two hours
but we bustle around it
raid the fridge for spoils
filch the brut cider out of its box
aim its knuckle at the ceiling and spill
ourselves around the table.
We take it in turns to lather a breath
of buckwheat on the buttered bilig
laugh at the slits where the rosel failed
to needle the lace into a perfect circle of seams.
From my fist tumbles a pocketful of myrtles