Rations

In the stack of needles,
I found, finally,
a single piece of hay,
and with my bloody thumbs,
I sat under the sun
and sucked on it,
and dusk came,
then dawn, ad infinitum.
Add infinitum more.
 
I dreamed something
had hurt me, and it had.
But also, the dream
 
of feeding, of feeling.
The prophet in one poem
is the whore in another.
 
All this fodder for you—
and still, you can’t even
acknowledge the animals.