The Man with a Hole in His Heart
Everyone has advice, lots of suggestions,
Some bring him plastic bowls, tin cans,
Old buckets; someone with half a degree
In something says the blood stains don’t matter,
Not even the rate of flow. “It’s the total volume,
It’s the displacement, you see. Just the displacement.
Never mind the rest.”
I don’t mind,
Hell, it’s not my world, who cares if it gets all bloody?
And I’ve been displaced before, too,
By better things than my own lousy blood.
Well, maybe I can’t say I don’t mind, but anyway,
I’m sure as hell used to it, by now.
Lovers Losing Lovers
Nothing in all the world is quite so lonely as a lover who wants to love but loses his beloved in a jungle the two of them helped one another create, plant by tree by vine. Nothing in all the world is so pathetic as a lover who thinks he wants to stand but always finds himself lying down, thinks he wants to speak but constantly falls silent. Nothing in all the world is so helpless as a lover lost in a jungle he has helped to make and cannot find even the edge of.
There is no escaping, either for the lover or for his beloved, when the vines have closed off the sun, when the trees have closed off the wind, when the plants have grown into a thick wall that no foot was ever meant to penetrate. Escape is never a possibility, anyway. The only possibility is demolition — either the jungle or themselves. They must choose. No one else can choose for them, and they cannot escape the choice. It is their choice. They will live with it forever.