Cake Kissed Cynthia Arrieu-King Hello sponge, sweet map of my hand. Oven quarters-- that black solitary. Hardly a way to cut through things. Nothing to do: fondly exist, all brisk pleasures like a nutmeg fume of mood. Too, part of this good is disproportionate. A fond, if ironic, dream. In gold cashmere, five brisk measures, a leisure at other times the better claim, a quiet map: how you rub the fat in matters. To sit, a hot dark hour easier to pass as a fix, a correct shipwreck. Foam risen. Exactly what I mean when I talk this fond if ironic dream. We let you bake a little. And renounce grains & membranes to enter a life of kitchens, office creatures, the unexpressed. Into the words we can bake a little "a." A cake is kissed a cake. This good wait is.