My husband is baking while Bill Evans
thinks his way through ‘Time
Remembered’
and I become texture; ground
sugar, and how
the mix sticks a little to his
wedding ring.
He calls it alchemy and
balances my humours
with rose water, coriander
seeds. The cat
on my lap, its thin muscles
tensing, heat,
the pressure of an idea working
its way
through the pap and fluff
of my brain.
Little almond discs tasting of
the spice trade,
eaten under a blue moon with
white port,
very cold, as we talk Apollo,
astrolabes.
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