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

The wind might not lament; the gift-shop door
could jingle bells, the jasmine candles wafting.

More lovely the cowboys falling from false fronts
onto a cardboard-mattress medium

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,