It occurs to me now,
set before a table of endless feasts,
that i have always been hungry,
and even as i eat
i cannot be sated.

The restlessness cannot be laid down
on any torn spring mattress;
it cannot be deep fried,
or burnt, in the stomach of a gas oven,
but rather, plucked from the tree,
or gleaned from the wheat:
you, spinning so gracefully, sow
and so lovingly, let fall
to a dog like me.

Finding strength stitched in the hem of your robes;
you, my procession, celebrated:
on a sunday, through the narrow alleys,
you slowly strolled,

tying opposite ends
of a wick, lighting the street lamps, so they too may live,
sweetly humming my beginning,
that i somehow forgot,

as i scurried along,
you, waited
for me to catch up.

The darkest humorist:
makes light my fears,
so that this floating ship
will not sink
some 20,000 leagues
under it's panicked weight,
pointing to six exits,
laughing, she straps me to a chair
and tells me,
"The place we are all going--
soon, we'll be there."

I sit beside you,
and your beauty is terrorful;
like frost on a window pane,
it keeps me still,
like the bouncing of the plane
that reminds me i'm falling
through a cloudy world
that hides flying dangers like you,
and though without the brave voice of the captain,
silently, i say to you,
"You are beautiful."

Eternal wheels spin-
connected by wooden spokes.
The center remains still.

Air moist with dry hopes,
boils under jealous Sol,
and softly rain falls.

We found our way in-
to gutters, in search of food.
Their scraps are our meals.

Fires burn pink gray sky.
Dusk pulls night's blanket out west.
Her death is Golden.