Bread

A blank page is a cloud top
until a mountain, or volcano
scribbles through,

snow covered parking lot
written in acceleration
or sudden braking.

These letters are bird footprints
after, um, a walk in coal dust?

Why beg for sense
when little more than sweetness
tells us it’s OK to eat?

Make me a ladder—
and I am your way up,
never to let you fall.

Bend me into a staircase,
and I'll take you to the top
up and over any wall.

I'll be the elevator
gets stuck between floors—
and the cracks of the world open to us
in dawn and twilight life.


If I could,
I'd be your bread.