Warmest French Bread
I am the River Moldau collecting beneath crossed ankles. I am the sideways push to get out from your path. I am you, stained grey-air ash. I am warmest French bread and condensation on the plate. Me and the droplets waiting for spreadable Everything’s Better Butter.
Proof by the Faults
In bed without solace of restEach sand of the day falling In poring over the text of ages. Like bed-light under comforterMany moons ago. Still a similar warmth of spiritAnd text of ages in hand: A letter. From father to long lost loveNot mother. Proof of an everlasting trial. Secrecy by the fault linesWhich brought forth deathIn the form of children. A…