When a man wakes with the yearning
of a lad for breast milk, he sucks
whatever looks like a nipple.
This is not me even though
this poems says I’m hungry
for holy writings, for solid food.
Lead not to my abode, the clergy
who wouldn’t read from the scripture.
My dog hasn’t eaten flesh in a while.
My mouth is blessed with high spirit.
If you ever read about the man declared
happy for counting the scribbled letters,
you’d understand when I said I am
a citrus tree at the riverbank.