We Kneaded Yeast.

In my dreams
I'm scraping bowls
and dropping dough
onto flat surfaces
once clean, now sticky.
A contagious
mound of yawning
gluten is proof
that yeast breathes.
Now wash the bread,
and bake it in because
as soon as patient
mouths are fed,
the clean-up begins.





.

seasonal

freeze over me
and call me tired,
and a collector of
your thoughts which
seep into my brain
only to extrovert
themselves on my hair.
It's not until I'm in the house
and the gloves are off
that I notice
my body is a graveyard
of melted drips that are memories
of the winter.





.

Going to a concert is like being put in an oven.

In the beginning you are a raw, cold participant of the energy around you and by the end you've become solidified in the absorption of words, music, and movement.

The unleashing of an artist's confession is the vulnerable heat that cements my own internal proteins.

And when the concert is over and the oven door opens, I'm still cooking by the carryover heat.

.

the tiny life saver that
is called a space heater
whores its stores of
attractive energy in
front of my toes,
and just as I hoard
its offering
with a blanket,
it shouts
do not cover
but whispers
do not be coy.




.