By Kylie Gellatly @kyliegolightly

The ground rolls around me, My head
a downward yet deathless sun. I wait Here
To feed The greed of the belly and the intimate
prelude of My own voice, idly nearing
the steam of time passing.

I am aware This is the feast
where the eaters and drinkers are ceaseless
within; I too am reeds at the neck and breath
at the thumb—my words like trestles hold-
ing to the midst.

I know my shallows—not
the nerve but the song, sweeping continually
under the turrets—A Music unsunk and final;
the same omnivorous organ that brings me
to the banks of myself.