state of nature

these are no brooms to clean this thatch

only individual matchsticks

crammed into incendiary packets.

this is not a home of weaverbirds:

each sparrow sleeps in her own nest, safe

behind a sky-high-mud-wall-dung-polished fence.

there can be no canopying canvas

where each carry his umbrella

and splatters mud on the rest.

do not say, they’re troopers of termites or ants,

I find only beetles intent on rolling offshore

their share of the minted, scented dung.

I see no honeybees

just butterflies in pairs

squabbling over the remnant nectar.