Her toes are spoons that slurp from the bowl of the world.

Reckless abandon. Milk first. Milk it for everything there is.

 Tug on it like a grandmother's arm, jerky and needy and sudden and fearful

and as important as any universal meaning and a larger headline

 than a Nuke launching, landing, lashing.

It falls

--Off. On. No switch, no button, no computerized revealing. 

A sudden turn as a driver finally heading

the ghost of his wife--the GPS. This is the process of policy.

Feet thinking, toes lapping in decision making.

Who pulls more, filling their heaving stomachs. Too quickly

To ever lose. The competitive Eater shuns the world, hiding in its shell.

But unceasingly, languidly caresses it,

like the dead reaching out to the breathing things.

Touches muffled by body bags.

Growing obese on experience, ordering satisfaction.

Always wondering: is this the lasting course?