I have fears for Asia.

I have fears for Asia. I suspect calamities, horribles, tragedies.
Each morning my office wall map of the world folds forward
over from northeast
down to southwest, a global bend in terra firma extremity.
East of ancient walls and mountains, gravity has loosed a sword,
roused a beast.

The office white masking taped doubled doesn’t seem
to work, nor do adhesive squares, yellow putty, or scotch tape.
The porous cinder blocks
won’t take the stick. Unlocked and light on, billions scream
hang on to my thin world, dangling, feeling the new shape
of things, the rock

that was, the flim-flam that is. I fear the nightly crumple
of my thin world sparks seismic gaps, tsunamis, rape,
the Burmese
army hobby of plugging monks, that my map’s rumple
brings the eastern end, to fire, death, at least bump and scrape,
and office-tossed seas.