Any tree would seem to grieve,
what with the hawk lonelinessing
on her desiccated perch.

It need not be a desiccated wreck 
of boards, completely uninhabited, 
adobe bricks regressed to mud, hay. Heck,

Month of the least death poetry, 
I pity you: a bone of a day 
once every four years tossed your way. 

If she faints while in her fast, the chef awaits
her word in a kitchen hidden at the heart
of the hotel. Her hunger, his counterpart,