Biscuit

Waiting for the four hundredth degree
and pressing the seam on the biscuit tube

A hungry daybreak stalks creatures
at the edge of the sky, it tans peach
and lime at the crack of cabinet doors
the darkness of night’s cupboard

Some ticks and creaks from the oven
heating and the silence of no rooster at all
spilling into the now-comes light

Waiting is the promise of a surety
a door-knock could steal its bell, but
the biscuits, as soon as anything
are due, they’ll be warm, and well met