Hunger-bitten, I gape at stars
and bid them fall to my extended fingers.
And since I’m not so callous as to chew through beating flesh
(“all that glitters needs a place to die,”)
I will let them roost there for awhile
and breathe deep the forest heat while they wade
through white oblivion.

I will not forget my thanks, though my mouth will slaver
at the sight of sugar sizzling on my skin.
(And will they weep to fall so from the sky?)

I might crane an ear and listen as their insides hum
like angry spirits caught by their own webs
and count their fables as, one by one,
they stock my hunger with night-echoes.