OK, I'll close with the last poem in The New World.
Time Heals All Wounds.
The first wound: the cut at the cord stem no longer tender.
The scab falling off, the baby no longer sleeping
with its knees tucked up.
Dreaming of the dark, but reaching
for the window on belly, elbows and hands, on feeble frog legs.
The cut closed, and the boy's head
received as he ran back for the catch.
Not hearing as the fielder called for it,
or hearing, but not believing the ball
destined for anyone but him.
Pain gone from the wrist, sprained
when the enemy stormed the camp and tore the flag
from the guard's hands while the guard played dead,
thinking how unfair it was for the good side
to be so outnumbered.
The tear in the hollow of the thigh where the angel touched
it, and the holy aspiring sap of the wrestler
leaked out, wetting the ground.
Feeding the seed of a flower whose smell no one alive
remembers.
All healed now, the wounds in the back
where once the wings joined the body healed, and the legs grown
used to the whole weight.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you.