Hunger

I cannot feel the rustling,
waving leaves,
swaying, grooming
shivering,
brushing against each other
turning all colours
Blue.
I only watch, hear them
standing on the other side
ff the woods
where the crippled or dead trees
fall paraplegic,
intoxicated, as if they had been
surrounded by wolves or old foxes.
The woods are not amicable.
the squirrel is not
foraging alone,
it does  not balance
with its bushy tail my body
or my mind,
as I do not assemble hopes
or late evenings.
The squirrel doesn’t gather nuts
or fables.
I followed this squirrel to rip the sound
of my own voice confined to a mobile
phone as it climbs up the tree
squabbling amongst the fallen leaves
 I sink my shoes in the mud,
zip up my coat and dial your number
to say I hate myself because  
I thought I could choose love
inside a body scanner where
silence is despair and certainty.
How vague I used to be!
How unfinished I felt and now!
I cannot find a noun or name to bestow
this hunger that makes my stomach
rumble.