Cakewalk

Baby, you make
me want

to burn up all
my pies

to give over
an apple to fire

or lose track
of time & send

a large pecan
smokeward, or

sink some peach
cobbler. See, to me

you are a Canada
someplace north

I have been, for years,
headed & not

known it,
If only I’d read

the moss on the tree!
instead of shaking

it for fruit—
you are a found

fallen thing—
a freedom—not this red

bloodhound ground—