At which almost immediately - with the quickness
Of response which the explorers were, in their
Own societies, accustomed to on the part
Of those being told a joke -
The listeners would silendy weep.
And then stop,
And often, then perhaps catching another's eyes,
Might start, as with renewed vigor,
To weep again. It has not yet been determined
What other aberrations accompany this one, in this valley.
DAVE SMITH
Crying in the Streets
Self-hatred waits on us like the garbageman
spattered by our family's week of smells,
ready to leap down and swing and throw up
the pushed-in, packed, ballooning litters we
are unwilling to keep longer. His smile seethes
malice and love of this work. He takes truths
home free for the lifting, beauties we miss.
You can hear him crying out to stop the truck
that's wheezing and banging like history, voices
like pain in the streets. But his motions are
perfect as heartbeats; he is entirely discreet.
If you speak, he will turn away, or merely nod,
taking up our worst secrets, more punctual than God.
