Friday, April 13, 2007

Clean Room

We breathe the theoretical
minimum. Measured,
mechanical air sighs
from grids and grills, spotless,
stripped of any particle
that might distract our circuits
from the unrelenting
focus on ground
zero, stripped of any
rumor of biology,
scent of war. It cycles
through us, absorbs with a certain
fastidious reluctance
the freight of our outcast
molecules, which,
released like Brownian pinballs
into the outer air,
become the gray dust
settling on the spotless
benches of Nuremberg.

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