My hunger is to move you.
The thought of not touching,
jostling, derailing you,
is like the thought of taking
no meat, no bread, no beans,
until the day I die;

though I would rather starve
than see you lose your way,
I long for you to swerve,
stray,
the way a falcon leans
on the changed will of the sky.

by Amos J. Hunt

This poem first ran in the Midsummer 2007 edition of Grub Street Grackle