He has his skin. He has a thinness
to his eyes no bread will ever redeem.
He has no belly and his long muscles
stand out in relief as if they’d been flayed.

He is a bony mule with the hard eyes
one encounters in nightmares or in hell,
and he dreams of cabbage and potatoes
the way a boy dreams of women’s breasts.

They come uncalled for, round and fevered
like rain that will never stop. There is always
the empty sea in his belly,  rising
falling and seeking land, and next to him

there’s always another starving man who says
“Help me, Brother. I am dying here.”