We do not speak like pharmacists anymore.
Instead we groan in the dark streets like lovers
Eager to finish sowing the fields.
Some black and white photo of silhouettes in profile,
Pictures from vacations, head turned as though
To a voice calling from behind: over here.
We give up the city parks for pleasure
And look to walking meat sticks like flowers
To the sun. Here, the correct word for freezing
Is hunger. Not the mailbox, the imagined message
Through the air, that relinquishment of voice
To time and fingers slicing up the envelope
To return it to the hometown, little home
Drowning in the squeeze of its own juices,
Smearing across the table. We say what we feel.
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