The Loaf

When I put my finger to the hole they've cut for a dimmer switch in a wall of plaster stiffened with horsehair it seems I've scratched a two-hundred-year-old itch with a pink and a pink and a pinkie-pick. When I put my ear to the hole I'm suddenly aware of spades and shovels turning up the gain all the way from Raritan to the Delaware with a clink and a clink and a clinky-click. When I put my nose to the hole I smell the floodplain of the canal after a hurricane and the spots of green grass where thousands of Irish have lain with a stink and a stink and a stinky-stick. When I put my eye to the hole I see one holding horse dung to the rain in the hope, indeed, indeed, of washing out a few whole ears of grain with a wink and a wink and a winkie-wick. And when I do at last succeed in putting my mouth to the horsehair-fringed niche I can taste the small loaf of bread he baked from that whole seed with a link and a link and a linky-lick.