Feeding

This is the nut:
Moon ballooning over the crest
west of the canal,
a free electron for the electorate.
Morning goes down to power lines
and out to sea.

This, the meat:
salogok under foot, locking knees;
wind baffling my parka –
stone in hand, turning to hop…

The shell, then,
is where fire steams and earth flies,
a monstrous thing in the stomach
but the empty crown creates
this heart-splash, that foot-fall.

What makes me hungry?
Lying down, I see your face
in the tattoo of your name.
I sleep in the switch-back
of your voice.