I suppose at some point
we are all going to starve.
The gnawing will not abate.
The little hole inside of you,
patched poorly and thinly
with this and that webbing of belief,
systematized thisery and thatery
calling itself something
or the other,
will become the bigger hole inside of you
and will beg you to eat
something, anything.
Eat you will and to a fill and
lovelier blushing between
photograph stills
you will be marvelous and joyed,
but we're all going to starve
at some point.
I suppose there is good
money in teaching a body
to love the quivers,
the tongue to the roof shivers
of the long minutes before
hunger touches cell again.
