Sunday, March 16, 2014


Let's take a little walk, shall we,
While the Earth and Moon roll around,
Big dot, little dot, sorcering
That furious visage of a star?
"Provincial old fool!" my microbes
Think, as I think about our Sun.
The deep tap of one word's nothing,
Compared to shallower species,

But rooted in the underworld,
Compared to any given beast
Of one species' separate life.
I am one of a shallow race
Who labor to unspin the work
Our ancestors' labor had spun.
Let me be plain. Let me, a wart
On that spotty gold face, complain,

Which discovers and hides some things
To some and others to others.
"We want only," my microbes wail,
"To influence fate or fortune!"
You are, all of you, every one
Witches, I reply, so sternly
Even I am abashed and want
To cast my staff and robe aside.

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