Place my hands,
I’ll be a knife and fork. Indebted
to the service of feeding. Does a poet not
deliver, with thirst and hunger
to each ghost resided, a supper?
My mouth is empty, chapped
and postured towards the mirage
outward dragging like a wounded dog.
Make what you will
of the fruits and bones provided here
I’ll remain bent, in the crook of your palm.