There 

is a hunger that is

also an itch a bruise a wound

when one looks at the world like 

an oyster gaping and grit enters 

and the hunger throbs and labors to 

reject or clutch the mote the irritation

the hunger struggles to give its all its

secret sap fluid salt hurt juice that

clings and clumps into a bead of

pain a dribble of pleasure a drop

of tear that glimmers with the

limpid sense of all

luster

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Marne Kilates

23 October 2019

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