The salt of rye
The raw salt of rye
When the rind peels away
First with the hands, then the teeth.
Spiral the grain, and a saliva sweet ball
Is left rolling and dipping and dying
Into your esophagus.
It is what it is after
As when it was formed
The doppelganger on a tin sheet
Stapled, yet sliding to where we think "it belongs"
To browned perfection
Beautiful and forgotten.
Buchenwald death camp, Germany. Summer 2000.