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.
