From “Private Letters”
H is for hallow,
so nearly hollow
(very like hunger).
All special holes.
There’s a pebble
I learned to put
in my mouth
and suck
instead of food,
or the favor
I used to just find
on my tongue
and gulp.
Instead of luck.
A pebble, dedicated,
doesn’t need hope.
(An emptiness
I’m dying
to swallow
but don’t.)
– Trace Farrell
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