At the end of the world do you make bread or something else with your hands?

When bread is the new world and hands are our saviors;

Our tongues flames with a lick of salt,

Reality elongates into fingers, tongues, loaves and salty edifices.

Streets and avenues begin to flow past like Sunday mornings,

while bursts of memories come to life in the brave left behind,

memories that bloom in the trees in the prickly spring,

then turn ripe in the amber harvest,

to bring a touch of warmth to the city.

Who am I then? Who prefers to dream instead of remember,

what the world was before my hands began a new one in New York City

I who see each train car crossing the Hudson as an empty sepulchre.

I should like to no longer wait for NJ transit.