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Walls of bread muffle the sounds of our hunger.
Doors slam and crusts
fall to the floor,
flattened by angry feet in soft slippers,
each false step
an affirmation that nothing will ever
change.
In the shape of loaves, our habits
haunt our lips.
Repetitions in white
are handed each to each,
ears unlistening except on those small
occasions when blood is shed.
Thinnest blades cunningly imbedded
are swallowed
along with the rest of what passes for food
in the land of bread.
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