ergot, a slippery dark of rye...

photo by Edward Rinaldi ©

pining for the countenance of bread

with

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

EJR ©