Next to Nothing

No greater than the sum

of cancer’s brigade

advanced over the border

at 57th Street 

to your skin

Smaller than the gem 

on you thumb

pointing strontium

to flee from


Oh tiny

as the pretext for war

all gadgetry’s required

to inflate

A few piranha at your feet

One fine anopheles

The little tse tse 

Pretty grains of wheat missing


minute still

ripped from terraced hill

in deluge down to wayside ditch

and swelling up and splitting




    Published Synaesthesia




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