February 25, 2013

ergot, a slippery dark of rye...

photo by Edward Rinaldi ©

pining for the countenance of bread

each loaf
each crust
each sheen
each warm
almost ready
you wait until
there is a point
at which
a phone booth
will appear
to want you
spreading memory

this call is
a return
from a forever
it tears at us
our suckle comforts
supple scented flour,
water, yeast, sugar
and salt thrown
on a hot circle
of stone

this call says look
at the faces
of the Sun
mindfully chew me
lose your way
back to when
you might have
drawn pictures
with your fingers

on the floor
spell out
where smells
send you
what spills 
by waysides
when baking
for more reason
than something
just to eat


1 comment:

  1. You know what I'm going to say...last stanza, killer. And your photo keeps pulling the eye back, searching for more x