Fortunetellers are smiling in the teahouses,
their cards, leaves, bones bustling,
as predictions and traditions call for
arms reduction, a diplomatic solution,
the gentle and peaceful; a good year
for all. In the Middle East, grounds
rumble, and skies screech, people
of the ancient sands, seething. Here,
at the temple market, animal cages,
stacked, a cloud of flies, shit dripping.
A young girl skips by in her finest dress,
holding her father’s hand. In another hand,
a perforated box with her new rabbit,
an auspicious token. I go home to brew
a pot of coffee, turn on the news, watch bombs
rain down, and wait for the end of the world.