for dessert
if it kills them.
And so everyone dies
in distress, and it's
beautiful—
but the reason
for this is so saccharine
and simple,
it was never written down,
and has long since
been forgotten:
when stripped of all
but its desiderata, life
is a tray
of baklava—there's just
the honeyed
light of day
and the buttered moon
of night, punctured
by the gravelly
friction of fealty,
and wrapped
in the mellow-but-
frangible blankets
of our fellow
diners' company.
