I don’t want it anymore than you do.
I don’t want it at all.
I want nothing, nothing, nothing.
I feel more comfortable with emptiness,
a blankness of morning.
But the ink never runs out.
The light-bulbs keep breaking
and there is a light in the well
where a big heart is beating.
I don’t want it anymore than you do,
but it moves in its own space,
leaps and collides with rationale,
Internationale, smiles
through the windows,
escapes through the doors,
laughs at our foolishness,
thinking it couldn’t happen,
because it can’t.
Not in these bones, not in these bones.
In these bones, yes.
