And slips his silver key into a pocket,
disappears into golden light. All night
the world shivers with dreams and rumbling
trains. In the morning he is back, puttering
in the kitchen with the cups and knives.
Silently he offers fruit and bread, cold meat
from yesterday’s supper. Hunger is a shining
web he must tear apart, careful not to lose
his fingers to spiders or mice. How heavy
his tread on the wooden floor. He pirouettes,
burdened with butter and colorful pots
of jam, his triangle nose made of glass, hair
burning wild and white. See how his hands are
bathed with flakes of moon and will not be refused.