Progress Is A Comfortable Disease

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 pity this busy monster, manunkind,

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

plays with the bigness of his littleness
—- electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving 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 specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if —- listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go
 
e. e. cummings
 
 
  @sdavis.art on Instagram
 
 

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