Böll writes of childhood
and of bread:
of breaking its spine
exposing its entrails
and devouring the belly
of it, still warm
like a starved wolf.

the smell of yeast rises
from the page, fills your nose;
you feel the soft flesh
cramming every crevice
of your eager mouth
The pulse pounds in
your temples.
You are a bloodless,
but still slavering

Böll knows the way to read.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.