For day 23 of the PAD challenge. An "anti-form" poem.
custard, so, coalesced in the
pot, stir, stir so it does not
congeal (wrist heat-seared) the Birds's for the
pudding, the delicious lack of
form puddling down onto the
old country roses, pale gold sweet, the
holiday taste wrought from
powder and a little milk, strange
chemistry to make memories
amongst the sultanas, the spices,
dried currants, citron too
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