Hungers

The mouth opens up
to its fullest, searching
for what we crave for
each time, a bite
after bite of chicken
until the very last
morsel left
in the platter.

Like the words coming out
like the words themselves
as a poet writes and erases
them. As a poet wants
to repeat, writes and erases
everytime

A yawn leaves him
hungry enough
for sleep or a lack.
The keen eye
the same open wide
shutter as it peeks
only on one side

of a pair of holding
hands, unlike the ones it sees
cupping the cold iced tea
glass. Water condenses.
The mouth opens
only to kiss the straw.

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