Strange Hungers

These are my dreams:
A cup pouring out something not water
Trees of a kind all burning in winter
Hanged men depending upon branches of alder

These are my fears:
Skin peeled back unmasking that muscle
These threads here torn apart and asunder
Ink stained hands disgracing this river

These are my petitions:
That deserts are drowned at last by the thunder
For this poet’s death to feed that strange hunger
My annihilation in trade to end this grey fever

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