Knowing one cell unknows the next
  try as we might to mind the whole
and figuring out its proton-pumps
  transmutes a membrane into thought.

So when it's said that aeons ago
  a pinhead orbed a billion stars,
antimatter that's here, but not,
  and energy massed out as time,

and when there's talk of holes in space
  that gobble stars and galaxies
and coiled in cells, a thread of genes
  that's long enough to loop the moon,

recall past science and view the new
  as thoughts and models still in flux.
For numbers once were nature's edge
  and domes of glass revolved the stars,

and asphodels and goats were formed
  from water, air, raw earth and fire
and blood, black bile and phlegm preset
  the moods and whims of serf and king,

and phlogiston smoked off in fumes
  when fire burnt wood or rust ate steel
and draining patients of their blood
  cured stomach upsets and despair.

Which models, like the crystal skies,
  collapse when some new telescope,
some subtler microscope of science,
  inscaping space, or cells and quarks

  maths out a fuller matrix in a mind.

 

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