Since You're Gone

I eat like a fucking saint.
My balance has improved.
My eyes are bluer.

I keep moving, I get a rug.
Elibet's drafting table makes
way for a meditation cushion.

My saintly leftovers last for days.
I throw them to the crows, disgusted.
In the morning, the food is strewn about
Acorn squash, chickpeas, cornbread
Spelling the words, come back.

This solitude is older than
the both of us combined.
It sprang from neither
my loins, nor yours.