Our heads are solid marble, inland lakes willing
to hold down winter while spliting the atom—,
we fear daintly their unrenewed brightness,
skins collapsing into amber, we’ll seal ourselves
in the benign form of lined clove and thyme,
umeboshi-coloured, each lid, fastened with the click
of subdued discarded plastic cups, these auburn cilinders,
el todo por parte, by the pagan rolling of our hands upon
embossed
brass, we'll stir sour cherry jams south the shore;
Kate'll turn to me and say, no one cooks slowly anymore,