The rest of us watch from beyond the fence
　　as the woman moves with her jagged stride
　　into her pain as if into a slow race.
　　We see her body in motion
　　but hear no sounds, or we hear
　　sounds but no language; or we know
　　it is not a language we know
　　yet. We can see her clearly
　　but for her it is running in black smoke.
　　The cluster of cells in her swelling
　　like porridge boiling, and bursting,
　　like grapes, we think. Or we think of
　　explosions in mud; but we know nothing.
　　All around us the trees
　　and the grasses light up with forgiveness,
　　so green and at this time
　　of the year healthy.
　　We would like to call something
　　out to her. Some form of cheering.
　　There is pain but no arrival at anything.