While the bread dough inflates,
we sit on the couch, and you say
The writing is on the wall.
What do you see written? I ask.
You answer: Collapse.
We speak of wires tapped,
homes invaded, citizens dragged
off to concentration camps,
The smell of yeast drifts
to our nostrils. We lick our lips--
lips from which
words of war, rebellion, disaster
fell--
How swiftly present scent
replaces future-sense,
so that all that can matter
is bread, butter, laughter.
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