Almost apologizing, he looks down
on a harsh world of folly shedding blood
as if it were his fault, as if he should
have found some better way, written it down
so words could heal. He tells us what we need.
Sometimes we listen. He portrays the links
of sex and death, language and crime. He thinks
bad metaphor can incite angry deed
and he’ll go carefully. His conscience writes
these moral fictions. Women and gay men
breathe, fuck, make art. Are born and die again
And life is as it is. Full of delights
and misery. He makes art that consoles
instructs, amuses, stitches tattered souls.