It came from nowhere,
the impossible car.
Some of his thin hair
is stuck in the glass.

There’s so much blood
the warm sun walks
like Christ upon it.
A needles’ eye
in his tattered head
is losing his life’s
essential thread;
the crowd kneels down.
A siren blows.
The man tries
to straighten out
his body, like
a suit of clothes.

We see the tailor
in his chest.

And we thank the heart,
and nothing else,
that patched his head,
that he smiles at us
and isn’t dead.

1960