[Pretend I Am Isaac Newton In His 
Last Weeks Of Experiments And Life.]

Mania broke like a 
ship, on the rocky pills
they tell me I need to live, 
these days. Now, everything 
ripples, and nothing seems 
so certain-gold as it did, for example,
yesterday morning. There have 
been several disasters already, 
for example, this place, or that 
person, or the bird tangled in wire, 
or the not-sleeping cat, the dissolution
of all this mercury into my hands,
the sulphuric acid that Doctor
Champagne threw into the lake.

And yet, feathers still fall 
through the buttery white bars
of sunlight in the laboratory, 
and feathers still land 
like caricatures of themselves, 
upon my knee. And the sky
still turns inside-out upon itself, 
and the stars are still peopled
with everything that we may have 
lost, that was really worth having.

In you, dear, I have seen 
this philosopher's stone; 
and I can not help but to,
with some kind of compulsive
drive, transform every atom into 
life, like shaking, air-thin gold. 




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