You are iced coffee & tiramisu.
I am the glass & the plate.
Leave your lip print
on my soft curves, finger
scattered crumbs.
Savory herbs from an old garden
poke through grass & weeds.
If no rescue comes before the weekend,
dinner will be trampled.
The choir sings Monteverdi,
no accompaniment.
The weakest soprano
clings to a bass for support,
wrapped around his vibrato.
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