V.
The poet continues to scribble,
fast and hard, hard and fast,
as if his words were alchemy.
Sparrows can tell the distance
between love and death.
The ones lost in the war
have a story different
from what survivors love
to repeat over soup and bread.
The rain raids the south.
Snow storms the north. Worlds apart.
Tsunami parodies God’s wrath;
typhoon makes a fool of man’s genius.
The wind rolls across any field it picks.
Oranges thud to the earth, ripen, rot.
Maggots grow in the fattest of flesh, too,
generous and impartial,
like many politicians’ handshakes.
VI.
Far off, a boy unlearns the magic of alphabets,
his life stretched across an expanse of tubers;
elsewhere, another boy prances around the park,
his friends hurrah him down the slides,
their delight a middle finger to precautions:
The wheels of the world go
round and round
round and round
round and round.
At home, they’ll wolf down pizza and soda.
At home, they’ll sip milk and cookies.
VII.
At last, the poet is worn out.
There is no end
to the run of imagination.
He breaks into a singsong:
This is the world as is.
As is.
This is the world as is.
As is.
The world as is.
As is.
The world.
As.
Is. As. Is.