an embrace will fill the belly but like a stranger’s touch
To feed upon the earth, of it, as if She will continuously offer —
An embrace will fill the belly, but like a stranger’s touch, casual in passing, as if an elbow’s brush is too much for the bruising of a fitting cloak, these bejeweled eyes, of a beggar —
whose bowl do you fill if your soul is as empty as it is desperate, for the meaning beyond intimacy of food passing from hand to mouth, like a kiss lingers, soothing for the satisfaction, until it blisters —
and leaves all as equally parched for the burnt —
the shamal as cruel a mistress as any master driving the oxen by whip, pushing them to the edge, perhaps over —
there is no escaping your fate, as torn as it is from bread crusts that will make up the soul of a watery root stock soup
— and we are all come undone, for the forgetting, for the forgiveness the earth refuses to offer anymore.