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

i want your hand
the burn of your touch
the shift of your eyes
and the breath of your lips
i want you burned into my soul
i want the whisper of the wind
running through my hair
clearing the smouldering stone
the stone that burns my skin
the skin of your touch
the stare of your eyes
the beat of your heart 
the light behind your smile
let it fade
walk away
never come back
i want
but you dont need
and i cant hold on
i can't burn away 
i cant let myself break at your will
i want
but i cant have you