The Man of the Hole

In the rain forest of Brazil,
they say there lives the Man of the Hole.
Last of his tribe, untouched by the West,
save the bottle caps around his neck,
and the white Adidas shirt
he uses to dress his wounds.

The Man of the Hole is elusive,
but we've see his transient dwellings
assembled where the cassava grows,
and simian meat is plentiful.

In the middle of each hut, he digs a hole.
He hides there when the white men come
with their cameras and gift-axes.

On rare occasions one might catch
a glimpse of the sugary tip of a blow dart
poking through the thatching,
or if one is very fortunate,
his quiet, yellow eyes.

Last night I fixed it
so I could watch myself
as I fell asleep.

First, I saw my small thoughts fizzle
like soda bubbles reaching the surface.
Then, I saw my very soul ascend into the night.
There it was refurbished
by the seamstresses of heaven
as they gossiped about The Way Things Are.
Desire packed his case
and lightly touched the brim of his hat.
Right and Wrong joined hands at last
and set out to find dancing.

As the candle flickered,
and the final shred of self
slipped from my grasp,
I saw in the corner of the empty attic
two eyes reflecting yellow.

They belonged to a dark and living thing,
perhaps with fins,
perhaps with limbs,
but without thoughts,
or soul,
or desire,
or cognizance of right and wrong.

I had seen the Man of the Hole.
I had seen him and in terror,
welcomed night's small death.