WEBVTT

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OK, I'll close with the
last poem in The New World.

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Time Heals All Wounds.

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The first wound: the cut at
the cord stem no longer tender.

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The scab falling off, the
baby no longer sleeping

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with its knees tucked up.

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Dreaming of the
dark, but reaching

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for the window on belly, elbows
and hands, on feeble frog legs.

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The cut closed,
and the boy's head

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received as he ran
back for the catch.

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Not hearing as the
fielder called for it,

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or hearing, but not
believing the ball

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destined for anyone but him.

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Pain gone from the
wrist, sprained

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when the enemy stormed
the camp and tore the flag

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from the guard's hands
while the guard played dead,

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thinking how unfair it
was for the good side

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to be so outnumbered.

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The tear in the hollow of the
thigh where the angel touched

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it, and the holy aspiring
sap of the wrestler

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leaked out, wetting the ground.

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Feeding the seed of a flower
whose smell no one alive

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remembers.

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All healed now, the
wounds in the back

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where once the wings joined the
body healed, and the legs grown

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used to the whole weight.

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Thank you.

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[APPLAUSE]

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Thank you.

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