Assignment 11

Bread on the Floor

What is life, if it can’t be spent 

eating a perfectly good loaf of bread?

How could I, the average denizen,

be so foolish as to have this artisanal piece of art escape me?

This speckled beauty I worked so hard in carrying,

as if it were a gentle fish out of the water, 

is now lost in the abyss.

This endless tragedy reminds me of the struggle when

using a spoon underwater:

painful and eternal, 

a process that will never have any successful results.

What am I to do now

that my egg’s yolk 

is on the sea level’s ground?

Pick it up and place it on my telephone?

Burn it in a fire until my house turns into a crocodile’s tail?

Not a yes,

but a neigh,

from the language of the horses.

The correct method of approach

is to go about it as if 

befriending a shrimp in a tank full of sharks: 

we grab it by the hat, 

save it from disease,

throw it back into its kingdom,

then,

vacuum.

Are mirrors real when our eyes aren’t real?

Is the plane up above actually a knife flying through the sky?

Is cereal a soup?