You knead dark rye where gulls won't land
Flour coats your wrist like pale sand
Ferry chains groan in slack tide hush
Your hum stitches night to morning blush
Dough rises where the dock ends cold
Your hands know what the tide withholds
Flour dust turns dawn to spun gold
Morning pulls its heavy loads
Camera clicks catch yeast steam rise
Bus ticket burns in pocket guise
You brush rye seeds from wool cuff edge
Wind reads lines you carved in ledge
Dough rises where the dock ends cold
Your hands know what the tide withholds
Flour dust turns dawn to spun gold
Morning pulls its heavy loads
Oven door sighs heat on rusted deck
No customers just tide and wreck
You portion loaves on chipped blue enamel
Gull cries stitch the horizon panel
Dough rises where the dock ends cold
Your hands know what the tide withholds
Flour dust turns dawn to spun gold
Morning pulls its heavy loads
First footfall rings on gangway plank
Commuter briefcase thermos tank
You wrap crust in waxed paper square
Vanish quick as morning air
Dough rises where the dock ends cold
Your hands know what the tide withholds
Flour dust turns dawn to spun gold
Morning pulls its heavy loads
Flour prints fade on concrete stair
Dockside rising you were there
