From the black root
in your heart
by the moon
of the eons,

from the beating yellow sun
that leads you on,
that licked
its cool shadow

from a crater in the sand,
this tender
young head,
green and trepanned, opening

a hollow full of water,
the firefly taste,

warped walls padded
like an asylum
with sweet white meat,
slippery, softer
than ice, stronger,
more pliable.

You scoop it out,
devour it
like a mad survivor,

or, from a big tarantula-haired
globe, press the flesh for oil
swimming in spoons,

or dry the marrowy morsels
for snowstorms
of shavings.

You can live on this
world at the gate
of your teeth
food like light
passing right through
the mind, hacked right out
of the skull.