you won’t go empty, I shall make you eat,
I’ll fend off death—
apostrophizes an averted face,
retreats with a reluctant backward glance.
Agitated wings
flap at the cold containment of the moon,
fluttering
batlike, bewildered out of a dark cave,
and bump themselves on light’s solidity
as on an arm outstretched in utter trust,
patient as trees, pouring itself until,
ethereal,
it has been drained of every precious cell
to share with who may happen to be dry.
A house of appetite and sustenance
links, shelters, and divides
inhabitants who feed,
work, walk together and as in a dream
undoing the loose bonds of need float free.
You and I, walking toward this silent house,
encounter no warm gold
ring of lantern light
such as draws chilly travelers and moths.
No lamp burns here but blood,
mortal fuel consumed at steady speed.
Ghosts in disappointment flit away,
hunger unsatisfied.
Dim in the room we turn to one another,
open our lips, and speak
a single word and raise a mutual finger.
Into such stillness no new thing should spill,
muddy the mirror
we turn our double back to speechlessly
and sit and eat our fill.
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