According to the documentary,
for every two lines read, book,
newspaper, on-screen, billboard,
flyer, recipe, note from the teacher,
a child, somewhere, has perished:
starvation, illness, abuse, preventable.
Three now. One and a half,
these being short lines.
How can I serve you, reader,
the death of five, or two and a half?
I, born-again alphabet of guilt, addict.
You there! Slice these fingers one by one.
The counting. Seven or...
these monsters (j'accuse), flesh headstones!
Can't seem to get the math of death down.
No: this way, this, no line-break, just an illusion, words drip off the page, down the side of the desk, spill to the carpet, slither beneath the door to the yard, the next , the next, no break, they're in the park now! where pampered dogs trot in pink sweaters, down to the grocery where the sated prepare anxiously for a pang, across the county line, now state, fugitives! now country, hugging the equator no break, one line only and again without end and there, just half a child gone, things unneeded like a spleen, overly- long hair, fingernail clippings, a kidney, ear or eye, seal it, unsuture the dream: I'm going to grow up to be.