du du doo hunger is my pillow i never really thought that maybe i am the pillow and i am nothing but hunger a human shape for my humming bird self understanding the distance between sentences is so vast like a small lifetime of thought in a window of a house watching the last sunset before the new moon is to envelop all the dread in one’s hearing in the world and its noise poetry builds my blood to sleep in the sound of another voice my own voice that is not heard but felt the voice that is within all faces whether they are above or below the soil i know how to step inside the pillow of dreams collecting pieces of the hunger in a hum outside of this afternoon in the night when the stars slip beneath into my open mouth in my open mouth i eat you face my face all the faces the surfaces that i glide through and into the body of my friends and foes into the body of situations into the bodies i can not process but visit like a soft rain seeping inside the mouth into the river that flows through a diagram i have drawn on the table with my knife that my dad gave me to sharpen pencils and skin rabbits so i won’t forget every time i sit at my window and take a sip of tea on the table of my mind as your blades eat me as i eat the new moon and the last breath of a day when the frost will begin to crumb my garden with its individual pattern all beautify like the stars that fall from the frogs creeping about in the dark when the potatoes burrow under the dry branches of old poppy and broad bean husks