is to be prey. Meals for microbes.
Horror hangs in the blood like a barracuda
As packs of ravenous viruses howl at the moon.
No flesh is but food. Fierce hunger waits at the crossings
Knowing nothing but lust for the taste of our gristle,
Singing hallelujahs to the Lord.
Give thanks, then, too, for the gift of robust hunger;
In humble gratitude, for the legacy of lust.
Vividly we live and die, our suffering
In perfect harmony with our feeding frenzy;
Nor can we be else but both murderers and murdered,
Grateful for the unsought grace of being.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon