Is not blackness. Is not. Is deepest brown,
harder and redder than chocolate.
Crumbles on the tongue and up behind the back
teeth. Tastes of that redness, that deep brown malty redness.
German palaces. Thatched cottages in woods.
Going home to sit by the fire.
Today's 'Poems in April' prompt at 'imaginary garden with real toads' is to write about food (or objects or a room) in the style of Gertrude Stein. Only Gertrude Stein can do Gertrude Stein! But I've done my best.
