Have we a hunger worth keeping?
The reddest eye
contains such hideous sensations,
feels such fleshy images.

I walk new against the languor of sun.
Late November, always walking.
Against the nearness,
against life and limitless.
Limitless entangling, the frail despondent sun.

As I was speaking of a hunger,
somewhere a grayness overstepped.
There we were steeped in coldest rain.
What shot up, a pain
so big and mesmerizing,
it left me drooling transfixed but unfocused
and the the landscape cut to dirty ribbons.

We echoed down road,
through sickness and white.
By now, the hungers kept.
And we were set on losing.

-r. miller

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