Clinton Van Inman, 7/11

SYLVIA

I hear they have placed
A pretty blue plague
High above your flat
So that tourists can find you
And say that this is the spot
Where you killed yourself.

Lucky girl, you modern Sappho
To take the quantum leap
Like a comet to take your place
Among the darkest regions of empty space
With a brilliance that few can keep
And even less the mind to know
Where no dull planet can perturb you
As fallen flowers have no faces.

WHITMAN REVISTED

When I heard the learned astronomers proclaim
From proofs and charts and periodic tables
With H&R diagrams, and overheads and visuals,
With projectors and all to show the history of stars
From flowers to quarks and on to quasars
Then the latest theory that everything is string
Not like strings sticking out of their backs,
Like children talking of tinker toys,
Erector sets, and building blocks,
The blue print for everything in a box
As their greatest mysteries unfolded,
From hydrogen to hardware, from hogs to Hector,
From hairy apes to hippies, from hedgerows to helicopters,
From double helix to haloes, everything up the chain.
But among all the applause, I felt sick
And arose and went outside for some fresh air
Where looking up I beheld the stars
Until I discovered I was in the planetarium.

Promote. Poetry.
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