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21 Wild​yeasts For Marta Rumbling​a​way​up​my​dough’s​heavy​throat​to​its​head, seeping​the​trailed,​airborne​daughters​down​into​the​core, bubbles​go​rioting​through​my​long-​ kneaded​new​bread; softly,​now,​breath​of​the​wildest​yeast​starts​to​roar. My​hands​work​that​peaked​foam,​push​insides​out​into​the​light, edge​shining​new​sinews​back​under​the​generous​arch that​time’s​final​sigh​will​conclude.​(Dry​time​will​stretch​tight whistling​stops​of​quick​heat​through​my​long-​ darkened​starch.) How​could​I​send​quiet​through​this​resonant,​strange,​vaulting​roof murmuring,​sounding​with​spores​and​the​long-​ simple​air, and​the​bright​free​road​moving?​I​sing​as​I​terrace​a​loaf out​of​the​hands​it​has​filled​like​a​long-​ answered​prayer. Now​the​worshipping​savage​cathedral​our​mouths​make​will​lace death​and​its​food,​in​the​moment​that​refracts​this​place. ...

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