A handful of dice are thrown on a table. Perhaps they spell Disaster!
Perhaps sparks from wildfires can provide punctuation.
Burning through preserved trees and stuffed horses,
the fire searches for what is real, for what has a rind and is meant to burn.
Stray bullets ricochet off of armadillos.
I am walking in a field of IUDs pulling the faces off of pigeons.
It is a fine day for a hanging! Thirteen protesters lower themselves
off of the St. Johns bridge like glabrous and forbidden fruit.
The day comes to rest in a spray of small birds at my backyard fountain.
Bathing, laughing; Nepali women at their washing.
The finance minister leans away from his computer.
The veins in his neck writhe like a sea serpent.