A Thing Roasted

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

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