They moved
into the interior. Torn from the frou-frou
of jaboted mirrors and shuffled chairs,
a dominating card table on spindly dog legs, they moved
into the electric connections
that traipsed the chasm between synaptic clefts.
They moved into the mind
your p’s and q’s, into the light
that no light brights,
into the brain’s back of the hand on which is run the movie
of the moment—now and now, now and then,
now and when. They moved blindly backwards
and away from the text that failed to find their eyes.
They would eventually be weighed
in the blue comparison pool, unadjectived,
unmetaphored, unmineraled of earth mire.
They would be unmanned, unwomanned, unothered.
Diamond beams rising from steamy beakers, they would rest
on a metal cart rolling down a clean corridor
blank in a khaki noon. Empty.
Nothing. Good for nothink. And feeling
they had forever been so.
So unlike the logic of the lamp.