Sky burial: an act of generosity
no different from taking unwanted stuff
to the Oxfam shop, nothing’s wasted.
Vultures, worms, who cares?
Deciding to donate is what counts
– worms get their dinner by default.
Teachers used to say, What if everyone
were to do that? I thought: stupid question,
they don’t. But now, what if I buy
a TV set, swathed in plastic
and fat polystyrene chunks?
So does everyone else, everywhere.
When they made the first ever
polystyrene foam, and it set –
next day, where did they junk it?
I’m so individual, eccentric,
no-one else like me, strange
how everyone else is like me.
I have a million bodies! More
than I can handle. Now what?
I’m a bull in a china shop.
Even the most docile ones
occasionally flick their tails. Every
poem is basically a riddle.
Verses of Five 