Yearning for a culture to evolve their metaphors.
Daily share that their source has always been and never be bread.
first thought breaks out the ruby headed hummingbird, self-reflects
walls, tears & bombs, we lived it: oracle larynx, poet sanctuary breaking lines &      bread
We hunger for it, haunted by it in these shaby days .
The shared word aloaf -- passed from hand to hand like hot bread.
In the shimmering creek, the throat of the gorge, my son finishes his, reaches for my bread.
Symphony of crackle — an indicator of a well-made mound, it is what we need, just as bread.
Mother said during the hot summer months what is unrefrigerated
turns green and tastes like dead bread.
What I will remember, instead, are the mussels and succotash,
the black eyed pea experiments,  the prayers and the breaking of bread.
The lonely walls of my house, contracting the silence of death
hungry faces of homeless migrants, the virus infecting my bread
This wrong zombie chose my head:
Dear my brain won´t be your bread.
The slurry of statues still up themselves is not bread.
TikTok teens unseating conventions—forgive me—is bread.
Looking ahead at fragrant futures, in poetry we shall wed,
dancing once more close together, sharing sweet loaves of bread.
When canvas becomes the impossible
We paint murals across a mosaic of sliced bread
Prophets pray to the Lord “Here I am” and “let it be-
The holy day when the hungry word won’t just b(e)-read”
Walking alone, my hands knead dough out of clouds.
My chest full of sunlight bakes bread.
“You’re not dead, Reen,” Fred said, and Dad’s dadness sat right with my sincere bones in the M.E. bloodshed,
I knew what it was like to be clapped for from the damn Dakota like some starter yeast rising for late period Lennon
making bread.
Aside from encouraging the wearing of beards, did you know Walt Whitman slept on a waterbed?
And that he advocated eating salted rare beef with stale bread?
