Sunday, January 27, 2013


Brown bread smells like loam, like
Like garden mulch

Pumpernickel’s sour snap
Waits for mustard bite

Rye’s seedy strength, bearing up the
Fatty weight of beef

Dense focaccial spring
Thick with cheese

Dour Russian black bread begs for
Sweet butter, thinly spread
Radish slices, salt

Supple silken warmth of fresh tortilla
Dunked in guac

Sugared crisp of fruit-nut bread
Thinly sliced in toasted bliss

Even pita’s cardboard mimicry

Flood my recollection with each step
Down the bakery aisle

Past the cornucopian cases
Breathing deep of wheat

Condemned to timid crumble, unsupported loft
I devour the past

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