What, from my blood, my mind,
can create sustenance, pestilence?
What oblique proof is there
out among the wandering species
to find me guilty or worthy
of anything at all?
Must I exhume marrow, diagnose
these diseases with a microscope?
Will the hyperbole destroy me
when I find I'm as small as an atom
and as powerful as God?
Who will peel the existentialists from the
boots of dead soldiers, and will I find I'm
marching with their spirits around the same
nucleus? Last night I dreamt of spirals,
prayed to God that I'm not being screwed.