A postcard

The country is so populous that polygamists and serial

killers get off scot-free and airplane crashes

are reported (usually on the evening news) only when

they occur

in a wooded area –the difficulty of access

is most grievous if it’s tinged with feelings for the environment.

Theaters are packed, both stalls and

stage.

An aria is never sung by a single tenor:

normally they use six at once, or one that’s as fat as six.

And the same goes for the government, whose o ces stay

lit up

through the night, working in shifts, like factories,

hostage to the census. Everything is pandemic.

What is loved by one is loved by many,

be it an athlete, a perfume or a bouillabaisse.

Thecfore, no matter what you say or do is loyal.

Nature too seems to have taken note of the common

denominator

and whenever it rains, which is seldom, clouds linger

longest over

not the army and navy stadium but the cemetery.