Crescent-shaped bread

***

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

Half-moon-walking

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.