Hunger for the world

A messy poem full of tender bits

Sometimes I want to devour everything—

sitting here watching the rolling landscape,

metal stakes piercing earth like acupuncture needles,

holding up their cargo of words and color for human consumption.

Lions sprawl on the ground,

tree shadows cast in monochrome gradients,

and I want to roll it all up,

stuff it whole into my mouth:

every pebble of gravel,

every grain of dirt,

every blade of grass.

I want to feel the topography's contours

pressed against my tongue,

the hot asphalt burning the roof of my mouth,

taste the cool soil underneath—

roots and artifacts left behind

by train-riders, by pavers,

by the animals that came before.

I want to taste it all

at 98.6 degrees,

where air tastes exactly

like my own breath,

want the shimmering heat

to season every bite.

My thick grinding molars

thunder in the distance,

chunks of bark ripped

from tree sides,

shredding the foliage—

I feel myself becoming

the earth around me,

consuming what consumes me,

until there's no difference

between hunger and landscape,

between mouth and world.