Sunday, January 24, 2010


You made a pizza,
with beautiful tired hands
coated in flour,
caked with dough,
the smell of mozzarella
thick and soft, inviting;

a clock-wise spread,
a collage of green and red,
so bright and hot,
and with the night
we watched hungrily outside,
turning tiny crystals
on glass impenetrable,
solitary and silent in the cold.

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