The Rustic Crusts of Manna

The Rustic Crusts of Manna Davie J Walker I am the one who stripped the Sponsor from my jersey And the number meaning nothing But an identity recorded in a dry book Making me invisible to the Odd gods of your reality You speak my own language In ways that defy life or death Or the direction of the Sun's path In the aftermath of its Examination with the Illusions of reality strewn in the Branches of Stone Pine on the Appian Way to Rome Here we may pick our own Venders of the streets And eat the sweet ideal on The rustic crusts of manna It is here that we should speak freely For who will interpret our intentions From separate graves