And if the bread wanted to be a house,
because some loaves do bear a resemblance,
how could you dissuade it from that desire
to shelter a body rather than build one?
Granted, an equal pleasure but a different matter
from a light in the window. That welcome.
It might be difficult. I foresee a crowd
gathering in the street. They’re hungry and cold.
Bread as house confuses them.
Look what happened when a woman
built hers of flour and sugar,
what she turned into
luring the hungry, we’re always hungry,
into her snares. Not unlike war, the crumbs
of former lives, buildings and stomachs
ruined. All for the impossibly full
moment: making of stone, leaven,
making a house rise on the corner.