it marinates, concentrates
its essence cannot help but coalesce

give it one slow hour to consider
listen to the tick of the oven rack

expanding, the element warming
it to a sizzle, froth, and frizzle

at long last it inches past
a certain temperature

and then, at once, begins
that sweet inkling of lengthy thinking

which turns a golden pool of molten notion
into a periphery, a sugary

Maillardian outline,
a verge, the arrested surge

outward of whatever word
lays ere unsaid in that deep hoard