#129

“pity this busy monster,manukind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim(death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his little ness
–electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend

unwish through wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself
A world of made
is not a world of born–pity poor flesh

and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimens of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if–listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go” (id, 158-159)