Let Us Make a Pie of Time by Lisa Feinstein

It is midnight in the kitchen,
time dripping from a faucet, filling a bucket
wedged neatly under pipes.

And there is a mountain of apples,
granny-smith and green, unripe and tart,

balanced on a table near the clock.
And because those apples are sour and hard,
and I am hungry for your lips between my lips,
let us make a pie of time, you and I,
peeling back weeks,
to reveal meaty days, slicing those days
into thin wafer hours, savoring the scent of each sour minute,
letting the seconds run down on our chins,
licking our lips to remember a moment,
rebuilding the past
we've cut up with our knives,
toasting it warm
til the filling runs over,

and we are left
with much more than crumbs,
minutes to spare,
sugared and warm
coating our fingers and tongues. ​