Consider this swelling loaf, browning on our oven's steel grate: it expands under yeast power, all its continents skating apart, bidding brief adieus tectonically, like night trains scudding absently toward opposing suburbs. I can unfold—by the solipsistic streaks rappelling from your lashes—your inward crease. Not intoxicated by baking, but by the tent pins that stake down a widening morass of neural umbrae into the loose, damp loam of your conscious; your tin fingers yawn limply—thin, unshut jaws like two vagrant pitcher plants. You depart my platform, a dusky engine dissipating into muffled remoteness.
A minor experiment in syllabic structure, this poem has been kicking around my keyboard just a bit too long for comfort. It’s a made-up form consisting of eight seven-syllable lines, followed by two eleven-syllable lines, repeating. Visionary, right? It helps if you have a penchant for locomotives and/or a flair for the act of kneading dough.