The indifference of bread is/to being bread.
Sustenance. Furtherance.
The shadows of language inside you: sunflowers.
Dark sunflowers turning inside your tongue.

The circumference of bread in the dark morning.
Your mind takes a walk in the abyssal years,
for the first time the colors will hum,
but hum weakly like the ichor of feelings

that are no longer feelings. Paintings
are not photographs, nor do they misguidedly want
to be. The way you aspire to darkness set out,
little bowls with the blood of gods my offering,

like a chair set out in the night
next to the railroad tracks. You stare
at the chair to become the child astronaut
again, unbelonging, again, fog freedom.