So bread goes
the rest of us: unruined
crust begs to be torn, cities
and homes forget their wholeness
quickly. Inhabitants watch
their breath condense
form windows of steam
to soften crust. Swollen
in its frame, the door welcomes
a ritual press as if to say
you may pass, but I will resist.
If this is not my home,
it is a nice enough place.
The unlit kitchen a vessel, annexed
pockets of breath in borrowed space.