11

As I hold this glass shard in my hand.

I have entered the cosmos of questions with answers.

This is the world of the sharp spheres of hail,

Orbits of planets, vibrations of atoms,

The fission of cells, pulse of a neuron,

The plucked string of a harp,

Wavelength of blue light.

Here, atoms are pierced

By equations, the sunlight exposed by a prism,

The cells observed passing their secrets

Of organ and bone. Nothing escapes

Being weighed and titrated, resolved

Into numbers, displayed in a graph.

Is this the place where I might make something whole?

Find a solidity?

Slow down my dark fall into nothingness?

Subdue the voice that says No?

Should the lab be my temple?

The microscope my prayer mat,

The stopwatch my candle?

My sacraments test tubes and beakers,

Pipettes, calorimeters,

Specimens, diodes,

Transistors, glass flasks?

Should my guides now be Darwin, al-Haytham,

Lavoisier, Einstein, and Newton?