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Hunger. Always hunger. Restless. Never
still. The weeping ghost on the other

side of the door. I am elsewhere. Not here
but in need. Bent. Bulging. Dragging this queer

longing about. Hungers need to be fed —
witch-tongue, witch-word, words will do. What you said

about madness, ache, need. What you said. Words.
Your words sate even the dead, craze blizzards,

make dumb bones cum. I heft your words in hand,
finger their whip-like grooves. The world was bland

and then I read you. Now I am frantic,
lust sick. The way the hungry are. Hard, slick

with need. The sound that comes to you, a ghost
on the wind. You can feel this frenzy, almost.