Peel the onion heart
to its teary pith until it sighs,
then fry hopes crispy
on a skillet with two stubborn, prickly, artichoke brains.
Shred desires with red peppers, slightly burn and pour them
over green-white cut zucchinis thins,
be careful to express verses in delicate slices–
then wait. Our sauteed, vegetarian, love is darkening too fast.
Meatless thought nests in a symphony of one taste
blemished with pungent cheeks of a purplish egg-plant
paired with a soloed portabella mushroom. Sizzle all. Let it rant;
at the end soak all doubts at the stake in a glass of wine
and, dear, we are ready to dine fine.
You don’t see my love,
but you just stabbed with a fork my chocolate onion heart;
I know, you dream the strawberry tonight
and enjoy too much that medium-rare grilled full-moon
that drips over us far gone, lost light.
Dessert is a future and it tastes too tart.

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