look. another season of fullness arrives
and with it, the requisite longings:
wanderlust, a cleaning spree.
eros. craving. want.
hunger bowls about on all fours,
a shaggy lumbering incongruent
with the real threat.
(don’t cross it: better to play dead
than to be caught up, mauled,
carried off in pieces.
this beast can be that way.)
the birds somehow manage,
hiding in vapor houses
far from the threat of property.
weather appears to birds
as an impossibly fortuitous event,
every time.
examine their faces: astonishment.
delighted perplexity.
to them that crawl and creep
what comes is only more of the same.
the leech is said to have
two daughters: give and give.
only two? can any running tom
or newly grubbing larva
or polished dancehall crooner
disqualify itself from daughterhood?
give and give. give me.
the lyric of the universe —
i will possess, devour, pull,
imbibe, take residence within
every hair, glance, mineral,
memory, stray strand of protein
you think you own,
wanting you until i have you
and wanting still, the having notwithstanding —
except for birds,
the only ones perhaps
to whom time is a gift.


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