The wake undoes its sizzle,
eats up all light before noon.
Breakfast is a hotel
melodica, a runny Denver sun
yolk breaking my fork,
a new summer being untwitched
in the dew’s choreography.
Lafcadio at inappropriate moments:
the stubbed toe, the burnt
light bulb, the misheard word,
the mismatched socks and lips
and drinks and sheets and swoon.

very nice…for a moment I thought you wrote “clafoutis” instead of “Lafcadio”…still equally evocative. 😀