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.