Burned Bread

Burned Bread

God is a mad baker
sometimes,
so you must beware
of that man
with a mind narrow
as the streets in Portuguese
towns.

He dislikes,
perhaps even hates
himself, but
he doesn’t know it;
sadly ignorant
of why he quivers
in the presence
of his own shadow.

You may not
notice him,
invisible in the midst
of public places,
never holding anyone’s
gaze,
never stepping off
center,
never venturing out
at night without
a substantial light.

He will not glance
into mirrors,
because he fears
that within the cold depths
of that infinite glass,
his soul prowls,
dark and dangerous.

If he were to be
brazen or brave,
and peer long
into a looking glass,
he might actually see
himself,
and that icon
would surely destroy
or redesign
the person he thinks
he is; or has come
to be.

So he is very busy
reaching out
to all that pass,
stamping his false image
on the furrowed brows
of others,
like a postmaster
gone mad,
stamping, stamping,
like a man half-swallowed.

Damn Christ,
damn God,
for his edges
are black as char,
burned and brittle,
and no sleeve
is long enough
to cover them.

Glenn Buttkus 1965/2008