Rumbling² a way up my dough's heavy throat to its head，

    seeping³ the trailed， airborne daughters down into the core，

    bubbles go rioting through my long-kneaded new bread；

    softly， now， breath of the wildest yeast⁴ starts to roar.

    My hands work the peaked foam⁵， push insides out into the light，

    edge shining new sinews back under the generous arch

    that time's final sigh will conclude. （Dry time will stretch tight

    whistling stops of quick heat through my long-darkened starch⁶.）

    How could I send quiet through this resonant⁷， strange， vaulting⁸ roof

    murmuring， sounding with spores⁹ and the long-simple air，

    and the bright free road moving？ I sing as I terrace a loaf

    out of my hands it has filled like a long-answered prayer.

    Now the worshipping savage¹⁰ cathedral our mouths make will lace

    death and its food， in the moment that refracts this place.