Blue mold on veined cheese is a wet salty delight
evenly tongued by a saint robbed of artful memory,
memory remembering dreams of a soft blue spread
on a crispy cracker so recently parched desert dry.
To salivate onto a velvet tongue and meet a glass of malbec
is not so hard to take on an unseasonal winter afternoon, when
the damp clouds are high grey and amber and mild warm wind
dry floats across a blinding windy white post-coital mellow drift.
Hoping against the stoneware platter,
the chrome blade cries again for clatter.