Self Portrait as Revision

What comes out of how we press 
             language upon the mirror of the world? 

The body breaks and manifests: its wound,
              hunger for pink peppercorns and fish

sauce; shrimp laced with the tang of dancing
            feet. We get up in the morning to roll

the dough upon a counter, salt it
            with poems that never made it past

our dreams. Each knob is dusted with crumbs
            before it even passes through the fire. 

Warm globes emerge with a crust
           we'll tear apart, history a narrative 

we've tried to classify into parts: past, 
            present, and a future we say we can't 

predict, though we never really fall 
            out of love with time.  See how we 

make all these tiny corrections—more
           leavening, more air, more heat, more light.  

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