Casting Bread




She is lipid, wax,

melts under heat, cools to harden.

Insoluble, hexagonal, intricately structured and

full of holes.

My hunger is honeycomb

and I’m

busy, busy, busy.

These inner storehouses can never be filled

by a colony of honeybees,

even in a perfect, systematic function.

Flip me upside down

and shake out

the queen bee,

“for the only empty person he turns away is the one full of himself.”


Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread,

and your labor for that which does not satisfy?


Give a portion of yourself

to seven, even eight,

for you do not know when disaster may strike.

They are starving

and you are filled with love.

See how they come like a swarm of bees

to this land flowing with honey!

Just as

you would not know when the stomach is empty

but for the pang it signals,

you do not know which honeycomb has collapsed

but for the swarm of bees alighting on you.

“I have no comb!” you cry.

“I have no comb but my heart.”

Yet he makes you drip with honey so you will know

you do not fully understand the work

of he who makes everything.


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