They take over the whole world, they do.
But you cannot believe it’s true:
“The Roman never conquered the Hindoo
and my mind is my own—
I wake with myself; my yawn, my groan.”
But like a child who doesn’t understand the rules of chess,
we see the pieces sitting there. Not moving.
Very still. Grandpa, staring at the chess board, looks aggressively ill.
The child is bored by the game of chess.
The backyard’s chaotic life. A sole ant marching. A child destroyed his hill.
The child grows up half-wise and laughs
at the idea of “taking over the world.”
China calls Vietnam, but he doesn’t see.
He loves rock music and writes awkward poetry.
Yet the globe shrinks. Memes curl about
the earth; his small phone talks and breathes.
Shakespeare translated Caesar and strangers
mourned. The world is a princess and it grieves.
The Romans almost did it, the English; the world is small.
If it weren’t for this ambition, we wouldn’t be here.
There wouldn’t be any conspiracy or confusion at all.
Introvert inventors magnetize small bits.
One thing thwarts the inevitable ownership of the world.
You. You. The world as you. Yours!
The one detailed as God’s by Leibnitz.