Shopping at three a.m.
we are all ghosts
and feel no constraints

to smile or speak
together. The hour
is cold stars, entropy,

and we are eating
gifts, seeking ways
to touch ourselves

and the hard carapace
exists, to protect us
from the outside,

and we are a single
thought a million
billion years old

and the hunger
is everything we see
or hear or taste

or do not feel.
Run. Run, run.
Eat. Balance

Fear.