Bread Alone

On the first day
we had a cloud

It stretched up into the blue
so blue
it was painful to look at

and was whorled in upon itself
like a lotus column in the temples we had left behind
or a small, perfect shell.

On the first night, Fire:
the stars moved out of its way.

And we moved with it, till we slept.

Morning:
Bread rains down on us.
Such a strange fountain, here in the desert.

It was stale

And tasted ever so slightly
of communion wafers

the bagel I ate
yesterday.

I watched the grass and its ants twitch
watched as they picked up the crumbs
watched their retreat
and did nothing

except squash a sudden
horrible urge
to step.

Does he
aim
and send it down
and give a silent cheer
when the old man
with the blue robe

(there, see him, standing off to the side?)

catches the loaf
and begins
to sing
all the old songs?

Or is it just stale bread, slipping unnoticed from his hands?