Consciousness

What I know of spirit is hunger
behind, before
my precarious pretense at existence.

What I hunger for
can be love, can be food, can be shelter:
these sustain my life;

but sometimes a deeper hunger
eats at my soul.
I wonder if somehow I am different.

I confess that I, one animal among the many,
am not quick as they
at admitting need or giving thanks.

I do not take joy from simply being alive,
I ask too many questions.
A cow in a dairy stanchion is more alive.