Feed Me Like They Feed Rats to Snakes

Give rise to a period of waiting-slow,

Make use of a baker’s understanding of time:

Stretch the days out like dough,

to contract into plots, narratives, crimes.


Thought you could ignore the flesh, to find

all boundaries already marked within it:

Can’t taste with an eye preemptively blind

or cook-up with a dampening fast-wit.


Intentions on their way to full, now–

finally known, and known empty.

All hunger will find its target, somehow

Even in its wait, its swell hasty. 

This entry was posted in poetry and tagged .

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