Brainless eyes in the bitter morning high roses grow and the frogs celebrate victory. in the empty balloon of night nothing grows; the night gnaws and belches and victory is celebrated only by indecent ladies with spread legs and brainless eyes. at noon, say at noon, something happens finally. the signal changes the traffic moves through. life itself is not the miracle. that pain should be so constant, that’s the miracle— that hammer of the thing when you can’t even scream or weep and it sits all over you looking into your eyes eating your flesh. morning night and noon the traffic moves through and the murder and treachery of friends and lovers and all the people move through you. pain is the joy of knowing the unkindest truth that arrives without warning. life is being alone death is being alone. even the fools weep morning night and noon.
