A baker once told me
you are an old soul

and I wonder now
     if this life is my last attempt

at rising.
          Dear baker

     I walked with the ocean
beneath the starting stars

     wild yeast of waves
holding my pan of loneliness

     a phantom loaf —

          ***

     This morning
you said we needed more
          bread — wheat —
     and I agreed

     to oatmeal and molasses,
a stick of butter
          to fatten us both.
     We’ve abstained

     from kneading so long
we gorge in dreams.
          By the woodstove,
     you feed the biga

     until it bubbles, while I
put my trust in honey,
          a little rye.
     What our hands make

     takes a night
          a day.