Your throat is sore, your ribs ache. You have mystery bruises. You diagnose yourself: weak, overcome with dis-ease, wracked with illness, certain to die from the intensity of this affliction.
Your head throbs, your stomach demands attention. You have been throwing yourself too hard into the day.
You think it in Spanish: I have hunger. 
Yes, you are just hungry.

At a Window

Give me hunger,
O you gods that sit and give
The world its orders.
Give me hunger, pain and want,
Shut me out with shame and failure
From your doors of gold and fame,
Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger!

But leave me a little love,
A voice to speak to me in the day end,
A hand to touch me in the dark room
Breaking the long loneliness.
In the dusk of day-shapes
Blurring the sunset,
One little wandering, western star
Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow.
Let me go to the window,
Watch there the day-shapes of dusk
And wait and know the coming
Of a little love.
What do you have?
Abundant joy?
Buoyant hope?

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