two starved beasts

trailing my hands down his spine;

prominent with pity. His skin

is stretched tightly over his bones

forming a cavernous space perfect

for my weary head. The broken

fences stick up from the ground like

aging teeth; pathetic and painful.

he can die young and be used as a purse,

but I won’t be turned into leather

I won’t even be buried, just rot into the Earth

when the sun rises.

but as long as the moon is up, we’re alive

and hungry.