There are times
when form resists touch,
refuses to yield
to coercion or command -
an obstinate conspiracy
between self-perpetuating
coffee cups and the frantic
bushfire of books, laundry, Chinese restaurants,

and everywhere
the great Indian middle class
bloating steadily
on duty-free.

A rabid wilderness
of matter slurps
up absences, ransacks space,
an insurgent cardiogram
                                        serrating the skyline,
                                                                         eclipsing the moon.

This is the end of the world
you should have anticipated –

the unstoppable garrulity of things.