Peasant Bread

Fresh bread, whole
house smells like the
hearth and what's missing
most of the time.

I made sure I was
wearing Lenin's shirt
when I poured my coffee,
when i tore off the first
piece, the steam burnt
my finger tips in the
air like the steppe,

I blessed it
and prayed over it,
saw a vision in its
austerity, it was pure
and smiling,

I chewed and
swallowed with my eyes
closed, washed it down
with bitter blackness,
unsweetened,

I knelt down too,
in the kitchen that
was like a hall that was
in many buildings anywhere
to finish this song