The hole in my head's getting bigger,
expanding at the pace of my heart,
which pumps blood there to help me
survive vectors of virulence aimed
my way. I can't find the road,
only a barely walked path that
winds through woods so deep I hear
my heart, which has slowed
to the speed of branches waving
in the breeze above my body.

Blood is everywhere, not just
mine but everyone's, nuns
in France, sheiks in Bahrain,
running down drains in shower floors,
spilling down stairways through
gates no one thought to close.

The hole in my heart's expanding
at the rate the one in my head shrinks,
which my shrink thinks a good start
toward wiping blood off my hands
that don't wave to anyone anymore.