Worry not that there’s a hole opening up heartside,
a hole wider and deeper than the one bored in Kola;
It is an artificial production.
Since time eternal men have been at it. And
still, near and far, despite the depths gored,
the Russian & Arabian Peninsulas forgot,
They mine deeper and deeper in fewer and fewer days,
unaware that what they truly crave is a coded memory
A memory embedded at cell level and unable to surface
unable to bubble and rise molten from Earth’s deeps.
But until that memory is re-created, no rest is easy.
Don’t turn on them.
From those rough-hewn holes imagine music,
Imagine a harp that stirs the roughest spirit
and takes his ears for a minute, near the heart
to hear again the primeval harmonies that he
willy-nilly sacrificed with both kith and kin.
No, don’t turn on them.
Understand that they move erratically,
like magnified dust grains in water.
Knowing, be like the good mother —
Suffer them till the fixed hour.
Then cascade down kindness into those holes,
at diligent or devilish pace, whether it be
gentle smiles, kind glances, or birdsong met.
And recall, in the forgetfulness of despair,
how light changes hour to hour, day or night.
Like light, so change us all; But not the unhappiest kind,
Not the unburied dead in their one hundred years at large
who perfect the art of mapping and claiming wounded hearts.