By Alec Hershman

Eating Bread is Wooden Ships Crashing on the Shore 

There is a dial tone in the mirror. In a single room, blue invents a forest, and when the light arrives, it arrives like milk, without origin—white rain erasing fliers on a phone-pole.   Milk is the ranger, transducted through the forest’s million acres, emerging on the other side as a pencil. Milk is a bookmark. Milk reminds you of the sound foreign coins make in your pocket, and gladly, you are near. Milk has a weight in the mouth like a tuba has in the ear, and the chest which is the ear’s private amphitheater.   The moonlit pond…