I grow a back for bearing, a mouth
       for preference.
I want the garden green and gold

and red, to tongue
       its nothing seeds, its shit.
I want the body ambitious to break

ground for my ambitious want.
       I walk the body straight to hunger,
then I open hunger’s mouth.

I put the world on my body’s tongue
       and soon the world
flattens before me,

prone. I hold the world
       tight between my hands,
and the world, smiling,

curls my palms
into fists.