Trotting Around

The happy heart hums low,
the little stove's on "warm,"
a girl takes her breast apart and there's a pig.
The tree's a head of leaves thick in the blue streetlight.
It's night.
They've eaten buttered stone,
every glass is dead.
Soldiers staring at the border cross the world
with a plan.
They've died before,
they'll die again.

Mother's hands are red,
she smears the baby's face.
Blind hands flutter in the cellophane.
There's compassion in the human race
in the right place.
Children tumble from the veins and roll away,
tiny cars.
Fishermen wait like stars.