THERE IS NO AVAILABLE SYNCHROTRON2
Perhaps, this year, the days will be longer.
I shall not get tired.
Thought will pour forth from me
like an endless flow from the river,
like excess water from the reservoir.
I sit, my eyesight deteriorating,
recollecting the example of the poet
who continued after that forewarning
Dictating to his assistant, and I,
so much less productive, now wondering,
Who are we to compete with sunlight?
When can words with a past history as strait-laced
as a dictionary, their composition
limited to these twenty six letters,
like old joints which creak when they try to move,
subserve the necessities of illumination;
poor substitutes for reality,
dreams for experience,
dim wattage bulbs,
hardly more effectual than candles?
O, time still holds us in bondage. We try.
We try to be wonders, imagine we have harvested the photon,
have shot it as though from a cannon,
to be dissected, analyzed, completely comprehended.
Mere delusions. There is no synchrotron
available for such a study; Only that bag
of arbitrary contents
for us to shake, to explore like beggars
on abandoned cornfields, and we remain, ensconced
in imaginary structures that are paleolithic.