emerged in that one flower.
Eons, eons. Pins
made of itself and circumstance.
It was a terrible century:
consisting of blasted
oil refineries and stuck ducks,
fish with their lips sealed by plastic
and tar in the hair of cooks.
Filth had penetrated the vents.
Balls of used cotton
from the hospital dumpster, redden.
Yawning on obsolescence
the computer wonders
who punched in such poor grammar.
graduate to this suffering drama
all by her-selves.
Who once were cells.
* * *
History is more than just another surmising
grandmother at a window
or a reminiscence twisted in the scrim of translation.
Some long-ago light is pulsating in a trout’s heart
on a laboratory dish.
That light has entered all the holes,
no matter how small, because it is the light that wants to live.