What the French call “a little night”
when we put all our affections into a small place;
and you know yes it is easy
to feel enormous pity for the distant suffering you witness.
Your tiny heart feels more distress
than they felt in all of Paris in 1953.
We need to put you to bed. And later you can write a poem
for the sufferers you will never meet.
Where have you come from? And who are you?
You swept this poet off his feet.