All language can be encompassed in gesturing cycles of consumption.
Two predators circling so close they have eaten clean through each other’s shadows,
teeth inching up to spine.
Morphological hunger churns, pulsates and deceives,
no pyramid or pattern can hem in the depths of this hunger.
Every conceivable sound becomes devourable:
Language makes us like coyotes,
bodies pressing sustenance from every scrap we manage to push through
the dime-sized drum-skins rocking just inside the ear.
You’d be surprised how much can fit through there—
But you’ll still want more in the morning.
The coyote is always behind your stomach.
Poets and lovers must have it the worst
(although the jury is still out as to the limits of “poets” and “lovers”):
They are hungry for baby snot and the wise thickness of tar,
hungry for acid rain and a toxic belly…
And upon being fed this hunger becomes more hunger:
You and the coyote circling each other
with teeth soft and loud and unapologetic,
we work toward a contradiction in physics
and hungrily whisper: “Let there be no shadows between us.”