food

I spoon the words
into my
open mouth. I am a child
with books.
I eat strings
of sentences when I can,
when I have
time.
I devour the pages,
crumble them
into my mouth.
the ink drips from my lips.
whether on the road,
or in bed, I read
and read.
I need the nourishment
of thoughts
written down.
I hoard the books
on shelves,
on the floor,
stacks of them rise
like timber
in my rooms.
I starve for poetry,
for
fiction, for truth.
yes, even that, though
so often that's
the hardest thing to
swallow.