Wednesday, June 20, 2007

POEM the hair on your brushes

maybe even now they are watching us.
in whatever far off replication of what we now watch
they will see it with microscopes, with disease
with little quantum things even five year olds will know of


but how will all their disgust and contempt
be mediated by what we now know?

Anyone who now sees the hair,
Wound round the brush
Cleans it regularly
is utterly apart from this time
and held in contempt

While we ghosts
lose
ourselves
in our voices
complaining
that
we shouldnt have to know

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