Walking home alone on Saturday night,
social sounds spilling around me then
fading in my slipstream,
I round the corner of my street and
an image of your face rises
to combat the cold that searches for
the marrow of my bones.
Hope flutters like a wounded bird into
the pale sky of a vision desperate
with longing.
Forgive my physical hunger.
You were right to deny it
because by morning
you had given me
a far greater nourishment.
Copyright Andrew M. Bell, thanks to Valley Micropress, a Upper Hutt-based international poetry magazine in whose pages this poem first appeared.
