soup storm

an empty tureen, i mean the idea
of preparing, creating, simmering
and then transferring to a folk tureen
in the warm woods of a country kitchen

and then nude together talking about
the ice storm when the phone went dead, we slow
down under the blankets, we throw them off
when the heat finds us, aromas ring us

and you rise to stir. please come back soon,
tend the thick soup for our stately tureen,
i tingle at the warm rusticana
yet i'd starve in an ice storm for your kiss

here i am at the door, with ladle you
greet me, no you're not dreaming, you chuckle

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