The children are all crying in their pens br and the surf carries their cries away. br They are old men who have seen too much, br their mouths are full of dirty clothes, br the tongues poverty, tears like puss. br The surf pushes their cries back. br Listen. br They are bewitched. br They are writing down their life br on the wings of an elf br who then dissolves. br They are writing down their life br on a century fallen to ruin. br They are writing down their life br on the bomb of an alien God. br I am too. br We must get help. br The children are dying in their pens. br Their bodies are crumbling. br Their tongues are twisting backwards. br There is a certain ritual to it. br There is a dance they do in their pens. br Their mouths are immense. br They are swallowing monster hearts. br So is my mouth. br br Listen. br We must all stop dying in the little ways, br in the craters of hate, br in the potholes of indifference- br a murder in the temple. br The place I live in br is a maze br and I keep seeking br the exit or the home. br Yet if I could listen br to the bulldog courage of those children br and turn inward into the plague of my soul br with more eyes than the stars br I could melt the darkness- br as suddenly as that time br when an awful headache goes away br or someone puts out the fire- br and stop the darkness and its amputations br and find the real McCoy br in the private holiness br of my hands.