“Poet-pig who knows me . . .”

Poet-pig who knows me, in the blindness, in the bog
Waiting for Your Hunger, allow me to ask you
Lord of pigs and men:
Did you hear it by chance, or were you aware
of a verb often heard by us here below
The verb to love?

Because in the blindness, in the bog
In the vocabular web
In the poured blade buried
In my armpit of hair and flesh
On the straw mat that wraps around my soul

Of the verb whose brief outline is all I saw:
The stuff of dying and killing but with the sound of a smile.
It bleeds, devours, shatters, and so
I didn’t have time to reach the heart of the matter.

Is it a verb?
Or the last name of a humorous god
On the winding road to conquest?