Lay down the aphorisms, brick by brick. Play word-
tricks: the awkward juggler has to catch all the
balls tossed in the air, here homonyms fall neatly,
at their pleasure. Isn’t war, unwarranted? Isn’t man,
manipulated? Was there a poet present when light
emerged to rhyme with night? Dot every ‘i’ in
strength and truth and togetherness. Open a popular
wound. Hyphenate the personal and the eternal.
Bleed a little. This always works. Show just enough
flaw so it seems perfect. (They have learnt this from
sighing at the moon.) Cross every ‘t’ in grief and smile
and morning. Pour a free-size ending that fills every
thirsty mouth. Hurry. Is there room between the first
right and the last rite for one more rhetorical question?