Thursday, April 21, 2016

REAL MIRACLES

You've just about
had it,

now. You can't
stomach any 

more truth. Only working
methods

from here 
on out.

They should be boring. 
Like—an egg 

begetting—private,
hot, and yellow 

breakfast—instead of 
some hapless

barnyard thing, all carbuncles,
knots, and hard 

muddy britches and whatnot.
And the simple 

taste,
and the feel—of things 

real to you,
intimate to your tongue. Civilized 

things;
hardy, but not 

riveting—the cutting warmth
of the toasted 

staff of life in your 
mouth, for instance, when it's 

thick, so it
sops 

and yields, with the melancholy 
pudge of that dull 

yolk—because, after 
all, bread too

is nothing—
without the leavening.

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