We make ourselves Sick in this place - all the 111 we do revisits us in One vast curve that Strikes like a dart when Deed reverts to Doer and visits him With his own ill - Thus are our hearts Fouled by our own Mouths and hands, we Nurture our own Darkness when we Turn the living flame To night and visit all our Hate and lust On those more Blessed than us, mistaking Our own lives For worthlessness.next poem