It’s deliciously fat,

with a beauty of a cow’s eye,

with the smell of indigo colors,

exploding like a mandarin.

 

I turned my back,

to wait for the right moment,

to see your cinematic entrance

into the garden

full of flour,

resting on my eyelashes.

 

I skated an iron iron,

making rounds around you,

illuminating with fireworks

with hands,

full of ingredients for

a cake.

 

Was it cheesy

enough?