Hunger is an old story, a threadbare afternoon,
torn open as if by mice in the bones of a cold house.
The family, that weird station, that series of events—
we will never be enough. Kick yourself off
on another adventure. Whatever story you need
can shout itself loudest over the gutted rooms.
This is not fate, this is firewood. You are not lost,
you are transposed—you are starlight, elsewhere,
someone’s grass-stained child overrun
with rain, a taste of bitterness. Your red mouth
and weak eyes. You are not gone, not vanished,
you are flying, hair blown back,
and in this posture, this constant motion, look
how suddenly you belong. How old circumstances
fit you like bad shoes, same as anyone.
Even before you reach the pier, it is plain
sky broke its promises and crumbled into sea.
How light becomes a kingdom of salt. How the sea
continues, restless and tossing. Your name within it,
a small muscle, a smooth and silent stone.