May 8th

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.

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