For half a decade I scoured books,
lost in salt stars and broken bodies,
not knowing you ate the bread I begged for.

And now that the library’s
doors are closed and my own
angry hive of desire lies
dormant after a hard frost,
I find your letters
gnawing the hard edge of night—

pulling me toward some ecstasy
where death is a door at the foot of a mountain
whose peak I can’t see through the cloud.