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

For a moment, the kitchen opens,
With drinks and laughter, silent walks
on a moonlit path to a home far away.
Two glasses sweating on a table,
a gurgle and little drums on the
high chair.
Wellies wet with mud and rain,
and a playful grunt, 
While pouring
in milk to the soft dough.
Teatime chatter and
a golden sky turning a purple hue--
Taking the form
of a sweet spring well spent.

The water stops.
The oven beeps.
The background blurs.
The room closes.