***
Were The Medium A Phone
Or, A Call To My Muse
by a female Faust
Like an illegible sonnet scribbled on some takeout napkin,
Like the oncoming strangeness of impending déjà vu,
the not-yet-familiar will be remembered, again,
to you — though its hinting admits to no thing — in lieu.
To be sure, the any & every may some time coming replace
(& that quickly!) even this static most ponderous Now;
That for which we'd not room for, for itself can make space —
The impossible Beautiful could itself show you how
But — ! The soul of Science is — Reliability —
The successful experiment must be made to repeat —
Exception, though Miracle, by itself is futility:
Uniqueness, alone, is but useless, defeat.
Muse, I beseech thee to find this makeshift temple apt
Or if not, then to teach me — that I may learn — & adapt
