The pull before you give it a name. What the body has been wanting while you negotiated with it.

Hunger

Late spring opens an appetite. This week we name what we want, without polishing it, without apologizing, and notice what we have been calling by other names.

Each face in the street is a slice of bread
wandering on
searching

somewhere in the light the true hunger
appears to be passing them by
they clutch

have they forgotten the pale caves
they dreamed of hiding in
their own caves
full of the waiting of their footprints
hung with the hollow marks of their groping
full of their sleep and their hiding

have they forgotten the ragged tunnels
they dreamed of following in out of the light
to hear step after step

the heart of bread
to be sustained by its dark breath
and emerge

to find themselves alone
before a wheat field
raising its radiance to the moon

Bread

Each face in the street is a slice of bread
wandering on
searching

O shard of inward fire,
gather your quiet geometry here.
Let need stir beneath thought
rise as a single mark—
a turning glyph, bright hinge of intent.

Set in the inner chamber:
a curve for hunger,
a stroke for courage,
a sealed point for the not-yet spoken.

Let this sign stand—
neither plea,
nor bargain,
but desire’s clean shape
before the world touches it.

And may its pattern open
only in the hour it chooses,
where hand is steady
and the path is ready
to receive its light.




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