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On A Glass Slide
It grows a little,
pulls, or is stretched.
The tiny granules surge
and the blunted pseudopod moves forward;
the amoeba, breaking its back to make a foot
finds what it did not know;
a new form becomes clear
under the microscope’s unstartled eye;
drawn to its own edge, it transposes from the rear.
What does it hope for, this mild creature,
its dulled nerve exposed in an impossible body?
It waits, observed,
like the well of a trepanned skull.
Then heat is placed to complement the cold sphere
at its back;
faced with warmth it leaves the old climate
and the black tube carefully records its search
for love, a spiked bomb,
knocking crazily in the universe
beyond the flat glass.