I contract as the world expands
I seem to be everything and nothing
To myself until you arrive
But what knowledge I have of myself
Is like groceries in your arms
Leaves and fish and apples
While you survive on a strict
Diet of dry air and light
We are each other's food
And someone else sets the table
And carries in the steaming plates
And pours the Cheni blanc
Our first and last supper
This life I place on the altar
Of your hand my constant guest
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