Isolation Bakery
Andrei Kozlov

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

against walls,
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.

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