How Is It Possible?

how is it possible
my dear friend
that you write about the
sun scorching the
earth and wilting
the leaves
and filling the
world with nothing
but heat and
more heat
until a certain
collapse comes
to the birds and
goats and rivers
dry out and then
you tell me you
write with what
you see
that these things see
you and nothing
is seen?

how is it to be human
and just be
the pole in the middle
of the field
so unfeeling?

to stare over a dead
beloved and
not shed a single tear?