I hear them at night
eat from the garbage can.
Sometimes they shout happily
because they find pizza grapes
chicken bones
cold noodles
midday mash.

What paprika, salt or cloves
hunger is the highest bidder
to season meals.

And also a rigorous teacher:
man knows more because of hunger
that for a man,
before the mouth learned
hunger had already taught him to speak
to fish, to hunt, to hide.

This horde of hunter gatherers
goes out to feed at night
like primitive men.

Only today the cow has an owner
the river and the chickens have an owner
and like the earth
and the seed has an owner:

eat out of the bin
It is eating outside the Law.

The bread has a seal
Barcode
ministries rubrics,
legal status:

owners.

Now: what the hell will an Owner be? Say,
where are they born from? What woman gave birth to them?
And how are the fields so yours?

The onion, for example, which is so delicious:
I never found
in none of their bras
Tag that responds to nobody:
That's why I infer that it belongs to everyone.

I don't want to go that far
but it's just going away
you get somewhere.

I came to propose changing the name
to the garbage cans, look:
This side of the house is called a tacho
but on the other side plate.

We would have to agree on something,
at least in the name of things.

The curious thing is
that calling it a bin or a plate is not
linguistic but existential question,
that to speak properly
the grammar here
has nothing to do.