Perfect Dusk

[tectak]

Here's an unpolished revision, without meter (I'll try to fit it to one if this gets mostly positive responses). I strained out most of the icky parts (the first line, honey-water, the 'mingles' part, the 'souffle' part, the weird peach part...), clarified the metaphor, added a frame story of sorts, and tried to smooth the transition into the volta, as well as make it (the volta) less Gothic. I hope this is the right direction!



Hi,
Let's just cut to the chase. You are writing prose. That's what poetical aspirants call narrative text. I honestly believe that you should just write this out as  below. This exactly what you posted:

We have our dinner outside the city, among the trees. As I serve our dessert, you burst into song:
"Oh, the heavens are a glass of parfait! The sun is the syrup-drenched peach at the bottom; over it, a meringue of dew carefully folded into the creamy air floats; and then, a light sprinkling of green mint and cocoa, the earth in all its richness! "But we're always so keen to dip our dirty spoons into the mess, to have too much of it, and to poison it for the rest." In the distance, the smokestack city harries its last hurrah for the day; its digits of stone and steel spew heavy smoke into the sunset sky.

Now, to be fair, there is not much on the plate, nouvelle cuisine leaves most of us hungry. What you have written is a solidified  (that was your editorial intention?) condensate roughly roughly cut up into short lines to convince yourself that it is a poem. I have no idea why anyone believes that this methodology leads to excellence but no doubt someone will explain it to me...I have waited a long time.
So, why not try to make a piece of poetry out of it...you know the sort of thing.
I don't need to do this but I don't seem to be able to get my point across.

We have our dinner outside the city, dining amongst the trees.
I serve cool dessert, you burst in to song, like isles flottantes in a breeze.
"Oh, the heavens are light as a glass of parfait, the sun is a syrup-soaked peach,
slowly immersed in a meringue of dew and the cream air that stirs in the beech.
In a dusting of cocoa and chocolate-chip mint the evening takes on a new hue....

OK. Enough already. I don't believe I'm doing this Your poem...but you DID ask.
Best,
tectak

We have our dinner outside the city,
among the trees. As I serve our dessert, you
burst into song: "Oh, the heavens are a glass
of parfait! The sun is the syrup-drenched peach
at the bottom; over it, a meringue of dew
carefully folded into the creamy air
floats; and then, a light sprinkling of green mint
and cocoa, the earth in all its richness!

"But we're always so keen to dip our dirty spoons
into the mess, to have too much of it,
and to poison it for the rest." In the distance,
the smokestack city harries its last hurrah
for the day; its digits of stone and steel
spew heavy smoke into the sunset sky.