It aches, the starving part.

Spurns the practised gossamer

curled gentle onto balanced bone.

It’s a swollen, mottled curse

—broad and malignant—

slipping sweetly in vein.

The arrhythmia of nearly

but never not quite, still

too round-thick, spilling everywhere.

Feed it, the starving.

Stuff it to bursting

with scales and counting,

fuller and fuller until the purge

and you are empty.