What It’s Hungry For

Strange to have to make it up again,
all over, every day. Summon it from
your elaborate collaborative core:

conjugate its tensions into sense, coax
it to warm form, coalescing out of all
the jabber and the lore, sired from

desire, thick resistance to desire –
gathering what conscious strands
you can into at least the simulacrum

of a man: breathing it to sentience –
enough to get it to the bathroom, make it
pee and shave and shower and put

contact lenses in to see what manner
of a power in the mirror might today be
looking back at it. Strange to have to face

the lack in it, and steer its apparatus
towards the door, hoping that today it
might get more of what it’s hungry for.

.