When I visit Laura and her love,
wherever I go there are small beds,
children wearing sleep in light bodies
like peanut shells loved in a dream.
When they awaken they tell me
I'm bewildered. They tilt
running down to their mother and see
shoes are loaves of bread and Julie
looks up saying "Leaves." Leaves
of bread have filled the new rich
bowls of light in the house where
a father was removed by flies. But
these young executioners give me
warm wood steps in the sun, say
the world is good for breakfast.