Baby skin, dough like softness
primped and primed
unbeknownst of the furnace
you'll soon be thrown into
where you'll grow a tough shell
to combat the fluffy spring inside

leaves fall
in the smoke turn
smoke in the stars
stars in the smoke
and the night slips
passes like a lizard
and again my food
lies on the frying pan
and today I do
fried bread
I'm cooking bread
in an oven consisting
of water
as well as everything in the world

leaves fall
in the smoke turn
and fly across the sky
like a dark raven
and today the mirror
it broke
and purple
like sauce on the floor
spread
and again my eyes
sang like birds
like bluebirds
as the heavenly heaven

11.07.18

I HAVE
A
LONG
TIME
-
BREAD.

30.11.17

mea maxima culpa:

i am so much 
like a breadbox born.

bowing over time, as things do get

stale, my cracks christening
unwitting loaves with light

already risen.

i hear the newer ones 

come with their own condiments

and an irredeemable crust.

the bread, I mean. 

They don’t make we

breadboxes anymore.