BreadPeacefully it lies on the cutting board
Waiting to be torn by some or other pair of hands
Or sliced through by the long knife
Each serration piercing the back
In a perfect row of holes
That each follow their own spike north
To form a single valley
The knife slices through pockets
Of yeast-scented air
And crumbs leap from the action
Until the grinding knife meets the cutting board
And silence falls
And one loaf of bisected bread
Remains on the kitchen counter
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