The Pain of the World, is there any?

[Alan Sondheim]

The Pain of the World, is there any?


If I write this poem to you, is it literal?
The sky closes over it, but does it?
The world's fury kills us all, but can it?
Nature is as violent as ever.
There is no justice in the world for strays, weeds, vermin,
whatever we call what we don't want. That is true.
Humans are strays, weeds, vermin, one to another, but are they?
I would see them dead, I would see the President dead, but will I?
I am frightened. Every night I dream of crashes, plane or car,
or just human against human. That is true. The violence wakens me.
Outside, people are doing nothing in particular, but are they?
The animals here lead delicate lives. Snake, frog, and cat are
rescued, everything hides in fear, but does it?
This year, the world totters on the brink of catastrophe. It does
not, the world does not totter, the earth pushes back like a plate,
but does it?
I walk across the earth and it pushes under me.
It pushes harder, I think, but I may be wrong.
The dead are on the earth, then under then no more, but are they?
The dead claw up, but do they?
Transformed into oil, gas, diesel, but are they, they drive our
big cars, but do they?
The literature of pain is painful, but is it?
Designed to withstand suicide, it totters, but does it?
Does literature totter? The world does not.


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