Who is going to be loved?
Who is going to be hurt?
There will be blood and tears,
cries and lamentations, if not
depressions, suicide attempts.
One would hang on a rope in the garden of Eden,
or leaping like a loon on the slope down to the village,
the fall of man has never taken such significance,
falling is not only necessary to start again:
it is a needed deed, a crucial curse, sufferance
of wounded knees, slit-open head, bruised cheeks,
flat on you stomach, eating dust and grass, crass
infatuation of more collapsing, bombed buildings.
One would pin another needle in his skinny arm,
the cub-wolf is an iridescent stain on a pecker path,
piercing skin, flesh, bones, like wood by a beak,
one more shot, one shot too many, death on the horizon,
lines, puffs, smelling its rancid breath in the air,
between four walls, a bay window opened on a flat
surface of tar, old bags coming to bathe in the warmth
of waters spurting out from rocky sources crossing the lake.
No one has ever been so loved.
No one has ever been so hurt.
Blood and tears run down the slope,
they cry their lamentations, if not
to be suppressed from the syringe.