We wanted so much to see your light, your milk that would not spill again like this in such copiousness for at least a hundred years. But the sky was overcast, was lit by flares and thunder; and only your wraith roiled in clutches of cloud. We wanted to eat your golden comb and smear our mouths and faces with your largesse. But such are the appetites of the starving, the unseemly desires of those who live on scaffolds of precariousness. Rich wafer, cheeks bitten to glow beneath stations of dimmed street lights— we’ll count the days, the hours, until our hearts can fill like purses again.