Crust of the Earth
Long ago someone went to work on this land.
Called out, kneading
the crust of the Earth.
Fistful by fistful—red hard folds
and faults. Heavenly loafs
risen in ovens of the epochs
tossed about in beautifully careless dunes
frozen in time.
The trouble they must have gone to,
mixing that dough and measuring
the coarse grain—
shoreline by shoreline,
one rocky outcropping at a time.
They rolled out Superior coastline,
Boreal lakebed, Canadian Shield.
Hideouts with names like Artist’s Point.
spotted with lead, nickel, and zinc,borrowed
from the lake Superior—
who took them from the Glacier
in a story long ago.
The lake floor gathers crumbs over time,
consuming the tales in endless waves
but the crust remains—
stale and lasting, hard
in the hardness of the gale winds
and the bone-cold swells.
I’ve seen the bread, bits of it in my hand,
studied fragments of stories unearthed
from the belly of the lake, but what I’d give
to take a mouthful of the heel,
halfway swallowed to the water’s hungry gullet—
chew till the wetness is taken from my mouth