A narrow stream of blood has collected
in a pool on the cracked pavement;
it has run from a hole in the belly of a young man;
he lies there drained of his life.
Tomorrow people will walk over this trace, hurrying;
for what is a bloodstain:
a drunkard’s fall, a late-night brawl,
a remnant of hideous nightlife that blundered into day?
The darkening blood-flow seems almost a mockery
of the life that sailed away along it;
and the dried stain its receipt:
who could be blamed for believing there must be more?
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