Simon Perchik: *

You darken each slice as if it is the flour

that has forgotten where in the oven

you learned to first go mad, alone

the way each moon before breaking open

lets you have one last look

mixed with smoke to make amber

then harden in the  ̶ you eat

crust that’s been reheated, bite

into the night sky where your teeth

come back to life, catch fire

stripping your lips to the bone

no longer soft, swollen from kisses

 –burnt bread  ̶ you feed on stone

while it’s coming apart from the silence inside

 –by the mouthful, what once was a love song.

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