When hunger becomes
a little god. You start waiting
for a miracle to happen.
Like a grandfather clock, you
had stopped moving. Time
becomes a scoop from your ancestor’s
skull. You start digging
the floor for broken pins,
holding the secret prayers.
You watch yourself now
buried in words, picking up
some flowers with numb
hands, waiting for the ants
to come, to open the
curved in, corona of narcissus.
