Think about it:
even the lonely executioner—who,
with all his
might, must press—and split
some kid in half;
then sift around the slag
until he finds
the soft white music,
the subcutaneous stuff, the
timeless kind;
then, taking his guileless
knife by its handle,
cleanly trim and toss it—
must sometimes find,
washing his face and hands
a long half an hour later,
he cannot keep his lips
from whistling—
having
instinctively
picked-up from somewhere,
some moribund self-
indulgent tune.
