Intemperate

How to be a heart without a human hunger, how to be
       a hunger you can sate without harm? Today I went
               into the yard to see if any figs were ripe enough 
to pick, and found a small nest in the fork of a branch. 
       I couldn’t tell if it was abandoned, or if speckled eggs
               nestled inside. Underneath, everything seemed 
a call and answer of dapple and wing; everything 
       thatched thick with heat that we index, as if it 
               could be pressed into the pages of a book.
Just a few days ago, reports of a rare pink dolphin 
        sighting in the Outer Banks turned out to be 
               computer-generated: fake. How to explain
the need to satisfy that kind of hunger, that desire
        to flood the world with poor copies of itself?
A first taste leads to another, then another.