The Wound

The wound is now infected. Now we wait
To learn how strong he is, whether his blood
Fights off the trouble. Will we see the flood
Rise in his gullet, will a world of hate
Expel our better feelings, will the gate
Swing open for our demons, the spring bud
Die in the summer, in a patch of mud
No bigger than my fist? Is it too late?

This is a bad world, delicate and sour,
As mean as fear, suspicious and repressed,
Unpleasant and distasteful. From the best
Down to the very worst, we waste our power,
Pretend we understand, until the hour
When the infection surges. It's a test.