To lay hands on the molecule
to cut the strip that separates
     life from rock
to circumspect the unfathomable
     poems breeding in test-tubes
the height makes nauseous aftertaste
to be human is an old prank 
     played by the algorithmic TV
sidewalks my city veins
to be headway but no meaning
soon to be becomes
mind the vessel of heaven
            to
                    be
                          godlike.

 

 

Modern Poetry