Why I'll Never Eat Wheaties

The crimson light crept into my mouth at dawn;
A child no older than four
teeming with life and cheerios,
grasping clay forms with sausage stubs,

building-
cities of thin, shiny plastic.
Your overcast eyes are always searching,
through a storm of oranges,
for the cheer in cheerios.

(Palm full of wool,
eyes of hearth,
a paper heart)

The sea caresses
With foamy fingers
Where the storm is breaking
On the cotton shoulder
Of
The
Coast.