Mid-Circle, Half-Baked

Onion under the door

Sometimes it's all I can do to stay and wait.

Always it feels as though something is surfacing,

bringing itself together.

It's holding its breath just beneath the meniscus.

The flavour of it will cross my tongue soon enough.

The story will tell itself,

unfold into my oatmeal, or maybe a nice piece of ganache,

and I will know it for exactly what it is.

I can almost taste it now, here, from where I wait.

It's like the back end of a cat,

always turning corners.