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Crescent-shaped bread
Can’t be cut open,
Made into a sandwich,
Be spread on,
Nor eaten at any other time
But morning,
When still it’s warm
And dangerously buttery,
When still you are
On tiptoes of your tongue,
At supersonic love or lava.
My first words
Spoken from its crescent surface
Would be ‘Bonjour’,
‘Good morning’,’ Bari Luis!’,
или по–русски – ’Утро доброе’.
My first kiss would be left
Right on the tablecloth,
In light rich gold –
A stain under my cup of coffee,
Indelible, soft, permanent.