There's something sinister about a
wind that slides in after nightfall,
particularly if it's also the sort
whose whisper grows to a groan
by supper, groan grows to
a moan by bed-time, and
moan mounts to a shriek by
midnight.

Some things just taste like poetry:
their flavors caress the tongue and
mingle with the breath. They race
through my veins and make every
sense perceive art.
For me, one of these things is
mozzarella cheese.