Hunger

— the kind

that would stab you

in the eye, keep moving

a bird-shaped hole

in the back of your head

for hunger-released in the rubble:

a cigarette the color

of bread, a candy wrapper —

the cold morning.

*

Shadow you thought

was your soul, flew in

through the fifth

floor window, across

the classroom

and down the hall.

But about the soul:

it doesn't mean, necessarily,

The Lord's un-clutched hand invisible gift . . .

nor omen,

nor flap-gift emissary

while you were teaching.

*

On the sidewalk, your way

to lunch, 

a good writing desk:

dark wood, with

a drawer out like a tongue.

Would it speak, it would say

My hunger, my thirst for someone

to come, dip his finger in ink,

touch my lips,

feel around my mouth toward

the throat, dead desert of 
unutterable words . . .

*

A crow

in the drawer, or

a squirrel

when you return

in half an hour. None of it,

really, requires the soul.