So, Plato reckoned all cake
the image of cake’s idea –
the ur-cake, cake’s essence was echoed
in every humble sponge, each fancy
eased from milky parchment,
and in all those ramparts of mid-
European kirsch and cream,
the balls of choux spritzed fat
with crème patissière. And so
I slice and bite again and again
in hope of tasting what cake is
in truth, the sweetness of that truth,
its give and clag between the teeth,
but find my hunger still unstilled,
my ideal portion yet unserved.
David Clarke's pamphlet Gaud is available from Flarestack Poets. He blogs at http://athingforpoetry.
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