Things

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.