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.
 

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