i cannot think of all the pains in men’s breasts
without the urge to sleep, or to lie down, I cannot think
without seeing God’s face in the child’s smile,
or in the lonely cry in the night and in the sea.

i cannot think of all the pains that have come
and gone, pains in men’s waists
and in men’s shoes –
i cannot have relief proper, wearing a neat tie.

i run around in circles, like sprinkling water,
i can’t have true relief, swearing out loud
and counting out the pains in my breast,
and in my pants.

i cannot think of all the pains and all the years wasted,
all the craze of  lonely men in village rooms,
and all the bodies that lie out cold, in avoided streets-
i can’t run out old, like a joyful child

and watch a sky pregnant with pain, or with turbulent rain;
i cannot think of the soil without lying down,br>
i cannot think of tears, lonely geographies
and the third world, without the urge to cry or to sit down.