Having looked not enough at what the sad world presents
and tempted to turn to this less useful book of words,
he says Sand and River and names the kinds of them all
voices voices he calls them Voices calling numbers in
his sleep. A sliver of rippling sirens strewn with dog.
The heartache of an empire misunderstood over against
a risible scrim of noodles and hats, swastika languors,
paper burnt after kind poems departed. Some to the sun.