It isn’t done that cut flowers cry
or talk to you,
given time they shrivel and die.
It isn’t done to suck the bones at table
above the ground.
It isn’t done to bite the apple, then place it
back in the bowl,
or cry to the plants in perennial rows.
It isn’t done to laugh at your neighbours,
their politics or their wealth, or
their failed economic plans, for fear it might
follow you home
and your lot, might copy it down.
People are all alike,
They seek visions, but they are afraid
they’ll land somehow on the Kerch Bridge,
arrive on a postage stamp to be licked out.
Karma floats don’t doubt
somewhere, nearby.