The feel and smell of bread against your lips
returns you to a sense some thoughts eclipse.
We want to taste all truths as if with forks,
but most elude us – like subatomic quarks.
You twirl your fork in a silverware ballet
for noodles wrap around it best that way.
Your love, like loaves, is given out in slices,
or else as many grains, the way that rice is.
Putting in words what you mean to my soul
is like squeezing a galaxy into a cereal bowl.
The foods for mind and soul that a writer cooks
are feasts for free when offered as library books.
Because we can’t yet taste the infinite,
we nibble substitutes – like chocolate.
Mario A. Pita