It is a rule, hospitals are not targets.
To think of the landscape this way, divided into target,
not target. I might look out the window. The squirrels move with a speed
I think of as guilty. People shoot deer from their gardens.
What I mean is: the hospital is where plans go awry, where
plans are wasted. One plants rows but weeds come in. Bitterness in the
mouth, staring at the ceiling. The inked fingertips that were supposed
to mean one thing, were declaimed by TVs and newspapers to mean one
thing, had instead become a target.