in days of sicknessa great crowd comesto the wrong worldfrom paincomes alonelike some hoped-for good luckand I am silent as the moonlightentering my bed
digging like a fatherfor his sonI find my notesfor the subcommittee on painall the old accounts of a heartclear as windows in a churchand the doors burnedand the roof falling down
another hope sinkinginto my night bagevery call is strangethat we hear in the darkanother body in painover another bodythroats that never were peoplecry higherbirch and oak burnand fly at last
bled to make shoesto make clotheswhich they did with good willand great painwho could not say Let us seewhat we can do to mend allas a fur of experiencerose over us like amber
no news is plague newsshutting up infected peopleand nobody imagining their painno news is like meeting an angelmore than airmore than some poor childand dying daily of sadnessat my heart having nothing