Hunger
The days, like wooden bows of ships,
are lost against the silence in between
the gathering darkness and the waiting sea.
And in the red-lined throats of passing gulls
I seek the night and hunt you down,
where dreams invade the silent forms of man.
I look for you, like hungry fingers seek the clay;
like breath draws blood from paper cuts
and restless shards of words.
The days, like traitors to a common cause
and silent winter graves; my life, my love,
these stubborn songs now all of my remains.
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