Let me brie your every
single afterthought:
a garish, golden cheddar
shaping singles in your hands

as a gentle mozzarella melts,
entrapping you in
lithe embrace;
a dash of your desire

writes a verse
that love can prove alone.
It's this verse,
this casu marzu

turning bleu 'til it's
acquired taste,
that renders rhyme
and rhythm full of holes:

which then become 
lovesick pools
that deepen with my
every retrospective gaze.