He was an alchemist
when there were alchemists
who were deserving of the
name.
He worked in malleable
substances:
bread dough and mud and
clay
had brought him fame.
Others conjured gold from
old
abandoned medicines
or pulled the volupté of
silk
out of salt hay – but he
preferred
incurring births of sentient flesh
out of a mesh of all the
better parts
of Earth: mulch and silt
and amber minerals comprised
the heart of his organic
arts.
And he would bake them
into bread,
or mould them into
candlesticks,
or leave them in a cozy lump
and read to them in bed.
He liked his things to be
alive.
He didn’t like them dead.
.
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