Death snoozes in the ruts harrowed through this breast, and sighs.
Each time he has visited this flesh, he has found it wanting,
its yield a measly pittance, not the juicy banquet he craves.
Lusting for more than mere antipasti, he appraises all potential flesh
for further excavations, weighing succulence against the hackneyed
cartoon he discovers sketched from raked furrows and erasures.
He heaves himself onto his side. Even as his appetite balloons
at the scent of organs he covets, he decides he needs more time
to contrive a satisfactory reprise. He rolls over and rises,
then shuffles off to gorge on more accessible chitterlings,
victuals, desserts. Meanwhile, I confess, at this point in my life
I could surrender whatever he desires and not feel a thing.