This morning on seventh avenue
A woman cried on the sidewalk—
She wept into a paper bag.
I walked by not wanting to get involved
Which is violence also.
There are not enough perfections.
At first I thought I shouldn’t write this.
We call it ‘virtue signaling’
As if ardor and hope are vain
And poems are vain.
I wash my fingers in cold water
And think of Rachmaninoff who,
Learning he was dying,
Went to his study, shut the door
And said farewell to his hands.
Perhaps there’ll be music where we’re going.
Planet of the Blind 