Bread.

In the city of civilized folk,
more’s the pity
that I choke on the gritty bread
while others are mesmerized and fed.

I’d rather not starve
while carving out this canoe,
ready to launch towards
the most true–
the staunch, giver-ghosts
across the blue river.

There is no ideal food
for this journey,
no sublime sustaining meal
I’d prepare in time.

I take the rough bread
making it enough
though the sawdust
aches in my craw.

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