i am the bread and
i am the baker
the one who takes it from the oven, priceless in the morning
i am the air through which the flour fresh ground
float flees
i am white dust dreaming
i am she who stands in line
head bursting with lists and songs and
the one attempting to sew a coherence
out of straw
i am straw and
i am the sugar inside it
i am the she which has forgotten
her own name
i am that one standing in line at the overpriced
artisanal sourdough bread shop
which recently opened up in town
hair all tangly at the back
(i am all tangly at the back)
i am the one saying two of those please and pointing
to the little cakes with pink icing.
i am you