An atom bit the center’s core.
Crux’s fruit germinating a gist of grain.
A marrow, a matter, a morsel of meat.
A nutty, nub-part.
A piece, a pith
of root.
Warmed first,
then fanned to frenzy.
The battle breaks,
struggle subsides,
last resistance shatters like some blazing sun shut up in a stovetop simmer.
Bound to boil over, leaving you
to doubtlessly devour the dish of ambrosial appetizement.
But more likely, to taste the blisters of char.
Spoiled substance upshot by a colonel’s kernel,
gunshots in a temporary microwave.