If only it were permissable
To beg you to fill me with yourself
Obliterate this barrenness
Eventhough, I've no ready-made future on which to sell you
I recognise the request is preposterous
Offensive even, but look
These are my hands
Aching Empty and
This is my mouth
Alike In want
My pockets as well are now empty—
I bring nothing from before
The stones with which I had
Filled them have all been
Repatriated
And I am here, ready to share
Their mean country
Won't you pluck me from this dust
Set me upon your cool mantle
Amongst your candles
Dried hydrangea
And special things?
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