Foe-word

Foe-word

Onward. Forward. Foe-word.
Toward, toe by toe,
word by word.

In spite of. Because of. Creep,
amoeba-like, stretch
that pseudopod,

you will follow your own body,
eating ground you cross.
Grind it up,

rinds of exit signs, greener than
the grass is now or ever
will be.

Hunger tells you where to go,
what to take in. What you
are taken

with, who you took away
and are taking with
you, even now,

hauled up beside you, at your
bedside. We slide onward,
on words inside

our limbs that clamber over
land, prodding at clods
of earth

as we move. A fleshed out
cloud, a flash of mouth
full, talking.