If a man falls to his knees in a forest
and there’s nobody there to hear
his soft weeping
and the trees are all standing around
not doing anything
and the animals have turned
back to what is their own
and the insects are loitering in the doorways
of his eyes and ears and nostrils
rubbing their hands together with
gusto
does it make
sense to sing happy birthday
in a room with noisemakers and conical hats
and streamers and balloons above a white table
where a man is sitting
weeping on his knees in a forest
like dysentery among the desserts
like the suicide hanging
beside a burst piñata
the laughter and shrieks of children
mixing with birdsong?
