pitty this busy monster, mand unkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and lfie 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--pitty poor flesh

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

a hopless case if--listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; lets go.

-ee cummings

I might have a new favorite poem