47/365 : cinnamon buns

in my dreams you are
cinnamoning inside me
spiraling against my lucid
sugar glaze
in ways i'd rather not talk about--
would rather just taste

after, you hang me like a baker's spoon
above the steel counter
watch my icing drip
and splatter

then you cool me on a rack
in front of the window next to the lilacs
like in 1952
when the smell of sex
lasted long after the taste

later, wrapped in robe
in the dark dark light
you sneak downstairs
to fork and knife me
ravenously--
devour my buttery pastry
empty my plate
then toss me
as i quiver and shake
into the sink

you rinse me warm and soapy
hands of love
dry me soft and gently
rub me off

but when i wake, i'm empty
atop another empty plate--
a whole cabinet of mornings
alone