Buttered my toast today
with fluffy white clouds—
sliced and dried,
creamy white cubes.
Curds of white
dripping,
congealing into great globs,
drooling—
finding substance
somehow.
My tongue stirs.
It licks its fill.
Creamy,
floaty,
somehow
so smooth.
I have my lot
of luminous white,
of fluffy cream,
spread
in delight.