A road that winds back in on itself, handless creature
of the wood whose crown is dirt,
slow in pace
and intake.
Killing is a long trial,
that begins with observance and waiting. From cool dim morning
to the heat of high noon, darkness inserts itself
into the squeeze of time.
Growth doesn’t happen quickly, so why should death?
In a low light
roots makes headway with the bodies breaking down,
when smell becomes an omen and thought.
The stomach
is larger than the mind, more elastic and hungry;
a long belly is a continent, whose eye is the length of a grave.
What cannot walk must crawl, or roll,
or be pushed by the movement of kith and kin and foe.
A small handful of yearning, of thirsty need,
is good eating.
