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 

© 2008-11