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.