The human is a bag of grief; a bag pierced with holes,
a multi-headed bag, split and split
again. It still asks questions: Who put the country
in the blender and pressed whirr; who remembers
when “decent” was what we called citizens?
Who let homo sapiens out of the bag
to torture their own?
I saw a moment’s splitting yesterday –
We, human insects, on the glass slide of the microscope –
and We, watching through the eyepiece.
We, both the hunter and We, the hunted.
We, both hurt and light-headed.
We, both nothings in history, and immured in our present.
As water will run each morning
when we turn the tap and let it run,
so the bitterness that brittles the blood,
that seizes and chokes off
flow will flow again. The tap runs;
nothing obsesses me but life;
in the morning, desire runs again.