Purity of Melting
Butter in a heated spoon makes me
feel something, even the thought of it.
No spoon in hand, no butter real.
Take what you will from the page.
When all hands combine to comb
through the spaces between words
nothing can be read without prints.
Jump to another face peering down.
Another recipe appears like ink
on glass, the rain reshaping drops.
The measurements are off,
but the soft focus sell rewards.
Studying the man and not the hand
serves two objectives, neither of
which will be recorded at this time.
A jazz band will strike up shortly.
Do you like to dance? No one will
ask you that question again
in this format. You have a chance
to be real and to feel it so do so.
.
Poet and storyteller Salvatore Difalco writes from Toronto, Canada. His work has appeared in a number of journals, most recently E-ratio, Cafe Irreal, and The Lake Poetry.
.
Stone Poetry Quarterly 