Bread and Stone

 

All that’s left

Is the heel of the

Rye bread loaf

And a small pile of

Caraway seeds

(Inside) made

When I lift

The bag

 

Bread and bitter herbs

I could be

A Celtic sin-eater

 

A job from long ago

In smaller, well-defined

Communities—and

For their sake

 

The task has left us,

While the cause

For eating and then

Running out the

One fed

Remains

 

Bitterness

Of sin—perhaps

Given the time

And hard hearts—

 

We

Should tear off

A bit of bread

To take with

Zealous spice

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