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Only search engines know my ignorance
and for others I doodle a brave face.
My search lists must be endlessly repetitive.
I do not know. I have no memory now.
The whole world appears to have
an ear for my key strokes.
But I carry no message.
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At the periodic table

The moon, a cotton seed behind the clouds
Presides over the expanding night's stage.
Stars, the dim theatre lights decorate the ceiling.
But what is the play about?
It is about non-still life.
And the actors spring like deer in the woods.
It is life all the way.
Listen to the peal of a death squeal.
It only echoes life.
Half of the stage is in dark
while the other is all lit up.
Daydreams and nightmares
exchange their costumes near the dateline.
But what about the dead?
Everything finds its place
at the periodic table decorated with flowers.
Carbon to Carbon. Ashes to Ashes.