Who Once Sang Both High and Low

The world has no love for us
In its heart. It has no heart.
The world makes hearts, shaped like toys

That bleed. They’re pumps. Life’s a pump.
Lives are all a lot of pumps,
Pumps in pumps. Pull in, push out.

Same for plants and same for bugs
That eat plants and beasts that eat
Both and beasts that moss eats next.

Is, then, the world, too, a pump,
All of life’s pumps made to look
Like the world that pumped them out?

I don’t know. I don’t think so.
Stars burn in and burst. Some pulse,
True, but does the whole night pump?

If it does, what does it pull
In, from where, and what does it
Push out as waste? Time? Stars? Us?

I get up when it’s still dark
And find a dark place to hide,
To peek in the rooms of stars.

I don’t see it. It could be
All the pumps are stuck on Earth,
And none in night. Breaks my heart.