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. 

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This entry was posted in poetry and tagged .

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