the crust on the bread we break
chafes the palm homely
as we twist the loaf of our repast
releasing the heat of hot embers
growling in the brick womb
of our rustic ovens...
crumbling aglow, after the dough
has risen like a Christ
to a crisp.
long after the yeast has spat hollows
in the flesh of our sour toast.
it burns unburdened
beneath a barren  grill, inconsolable.
croaking smoke and ash.
pitching cinders up the plume
Promethean.

it is the morning.

so our wolves will have
their rabbits
as our pendulums,
our mortality.

but the feast is not our bread...
it's the crumbs.