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
(half-a-life)
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
Seeds
minute still
ripped from terraced hill
in deluge down to wayside ditch
and swelling up and splitting
Published Synaesthesia