Lucretius / Norgat e

Drips bore holes in stone. Under the earth, a rubbed flint strikes atoms from the plough’s blade.

Passeggiata. Who sees the step’s curve deepen under the crowd’s feet?

Tourists shake the hands of bronze statues by the gate. A joke that wears thin.

We do not see salt eating away the chalk cliffs until the house falls.

Our eyes don’t freeze frame, can’t attenborough a vine’s snaking growth through trees.

We are not brahmins, don’t brush away ants, fearing to crush the unseen.

We need a glass lens, not our eyes. Then we’ll admit the hidden matter.

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