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I know the masses of manganese, gold—

But why is there gold at all?

Planets and flesh?

I listen, but all I can hear

Are the faint rolls of drums.

I call out to Newton, al-Haytham,

And Darwin. I call out to Uncle Zafir.

But I am alone.

I wait at the doors—and I notice:

A finch flies to the window,

Alights for no reason. The bird begins chirping

In weak syncopation

To sounds of the drums.

Sings and then quickly is gone.

Was it a finch or a warbler,

Or no bird at all?

Clouds drift through space, mask the sun,

The light darkens, the light blossoms again.

Time passes. Where am I?

There on the tiles of the floor, something,

A paper scrap crumpled.

I bend down to read it,

Some writing that’s smeared—

Nonsensical scribble, or message, or prayer?