Sensible in most things, Girlie buys foil packs of yeast whenever she shops. She has certain assumptions when it comes to – but what would you call it? – husbandry, I guess, an Order of Things: a dog, a made bed, a centerpiece, more yeast than a whole year of baking would use. And, no, it makes no difference the yeast’s alive, for it is very small. A thousand, a million lives, I’ve read, but then they are so small. So neat, so desiccant, saved for some use I can't imagine: to trip my hands, maybe, looking among stacked bins of flour, soda and sugar for, I forget just what, for something edible, then. Or say for one great final baking-day. Or say we keep our peaces, the kitchen of our love as fertile, as earth-pungent, as new graves, as a bombed field. And yet we have no bread.