I baked bread yesterday and somehow, there’s this overwhelm that lays siege to the psyche, each time I take a bread out of the oven. Here’s a poem, lest the sentiment asphyxiate my heart in a thorough drowning.

Knead tenderness into dough, it flowers into syllables. The poetry asphyxiates in fragrance, traps bubbled overwhelm in gluten / That sprig of rosemary splinters in the diacritic perched atop a sigh, a heaving feeling, imagining consonants battling vowels in levain / She feels but it's the loaf that inhales a floating sentiment, capacious swallow of thrusting rage, pumelling plasticine dough into a planet. Bread swells to Jupiter inside of a Dutch oven made in China, but the ire is from elsewhere /

And beauty must reside in sweet suppositions, those illusory aphorisms at dusk when light threatens to drown itself at the horizon, then stars write themselves on crust / shaped in seeds of onion or fennel, dead stars, blinking demon stars, red dwarves but she never used mustard / She wove a clove into the design, a magical charm of garlic to ward off vampires that thrill her / when the rigor sets into the molten of bake, she can't shake off the tunnelling of crumb that reverberates in the sighs of poetry she hears within her cloistered heart //