The slice that through our breakfast dries the toaster
runs with greengage; we grind these grounds from beans,
the coffee roaster
and I awake to smell with crooked nose:
my toast is burnt by that same pantry diva.
I have for toast brought to this land,
he said, two vast and crustless loaves of bread,
and here's the butter, near them on the stand.
Half stale, a buttered sandwich by the bed
now crinkles up with age, and cold croissants
tell us the toaster well our passions read.