Sweet buttery sleep

Sweet buttery sleep

a batter of dreams and leftovers

eternal soup of days and nights

and all the crumbs

that fell through the cracks.

Pour me into some form

so tonight that I may be

a risen, starchy baby fresh

from the oven,

still steaming from the heat

of my REM cycle.

The crows come calling

the rats salivate on their ties

and the baker’s daughter…

steals a bite…

a lick…

a lungful of the fumes

of my fresh-made self.