THE PROCESS OF EATING
I once wanted to make bread like you do
but soon realized
the raisin in the bread was a fly.
I kneaded this disillusionment with smooth knuckles
and exposed wrists
thinking of a time after this storm and
not heeding the locusts settling dust-like
on this porcelain visage.
Oh Alice, it is bare here, and you are littered with symbolism
the sun has downed another night.
Do you not rise everyday like flour, like the sun
which has eaten me whole
and licked your chapped lips?
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