As in that grey exurban wasteland in Gatsby

    When the white sky darkens over the city

    Of ashes， far from the once happy valley，

    This daze¹ spreads across the blank faces

    Of the inhabitants， suddenly deprived

    Of the kingdom‘s original promised gift.

    Did I say kingdom when I meant place

    Of worship？ Original when I meant

    Damaged in handling？ Promised when

    I meant stolen？ Gift when I meant

    Trick？ Inhabitants when I meant slaves？

    Slaves when I meant clowns

    Who have wandered into test sites？ Test

    Sites when I meant contagious² hospitals？

    Contagious hospitals when I meant clouds

    Of laughing gas？ Laughing gas

    When I meant tears？ No， it‘s true，

    No one should be writing poetry

    In times like these， Dear Reader，

    I don‘t have to tell you of all people why.

    It‘s as apparent as an attempted

    Punch in the eye that actually

    Catches only empty air—which is

    The inside of your head， where

    The green ritual sanction

    Of the poem has been cancelled.