A man goes to Argentina
He says:
"These hands will bleed when I get there.
I will bleed when I don't want to, when I'm tired.
I will leave this blood in desolate areas,
and sometimes on the soft body of a woman.
I will leave this blood on my tools,
and maybe all my tools won't make it.
Maybe I won't make it.
My friends have been attacked by pussy and structure.
They have fallen deep in wombs and
they're lost or trapped or hiding, I
can't tell which.
We lose good men to crevasses
in the mucous
and blood where NUUUUR-TURE and MYUUUU-SICK
take breathing to its most shallow.
'Doctor--he's not breathing!
Don't let him die.'
The women continue knitting.
I hear screams as I true these wheels.
My own soul."
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Lost hiding. One can get lost, hiding.
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