Observations
Young love
is so wonderfully transparent.
Filmy and filamentous,
under high magnification it has hooks, pock-marks;
the softest down turns into the ghastliest spikes of torture.
I separate the sections
with a puff of air
and with steady hand slide them
this way and that across the glass.
I could not wish this micrographia
any more fascinating, nor any more grotesque.
Even before
the first incision,
these component anatomies had long begun to rot.
Each chamber is choked with
a kind of plaque.
Frequently
the specimens leap from the bench to the fire.
They crackle and sputter on the flames of their own volition.
They blacken and liquefy
rather than choose a cold
steeping in formaldehyde.
I read it but I really do not understand it.
Outside there is a
young girl who smilingly pines after a young man,
but he does not think much of her.
It is obvious and sad.
Before the day ends he will break her heart,
dance on it till it splits and splinters.
He does not seem to know.
I think he knows.
I have seen it all before.
Tomorrow,
to my disgust and delight,
that broken heart will have regenerated.
Thin sections
are so wonderfully transparent.
Stained and flattened,
under high magnification they have architectures, histories;
the hardest bone turns into fickle gossamer.