Curse Curds

How many churns around
the bun will croissant, folding
and folding and holding a
butter finger on the cluttered
page, leaving your oily mark,
that spark of call me fish tail
that spoke to Nathaniel 
Hawthorne between the
maples, covering the land
between moose with the
eyes of the winter goose
to prove that another sworn
friend will result in the same
thing that revenge does: an
end, a little bitter, a little
filled by indentured 
mammal eyes.