The wry scientist feels heroics are unnecessary.
She shirks the convoluted equations and heads
for the atomic heart. The orbit of thought sliced
by need, dissected by a frivolous narrative
and neatly stacked by the bed. Hence, dreams
without effort. Little bird feet tick tacking
on a page, the world is a cage, is a series of
clashing explanations like greens, winter,
spring, what grows and dies to a sad, skint twig.
She is no mother of mercy. She is no shrill Cassandra.
Let’s all spin, she thinks, till we fall down,
proving a point in the garbled scheme of the world.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 14, Issue 1.