Saturday, September 3, 2011


The Poets light but Lamps—
Themselves—go out—
The Wicks they stimulate—
If vital Light
Inhere as do the Suns—
Each Age a Lens
Disseminating their

                 Emily Dickinson

What atoms of Democritus—who left
few fragments, it is said,
averting fires of Plato's ponderous heft—
within my cells embed?

The ancient dust of dwarfs or giants might
thrive in the food I eat,
and when I die my orphaned atoms slight
the death I could not cheat.

But what I'll leave is particles that dance
between electric planes:
the supercharged electrophor—by chance—
is what of me remains.

Forgotten texts go in—then out—of print,
but mine I will enshroud
in particles—though not to Heaven sent—
forever in the Cloud.

placed in the imaginary garden with real toads