They point at the skeletons and say, / not me, not me, not me.

In the yard, the Milky Way is bright
enough to scare me, a white scar in the sky,

As I wait for people / in hazmat suits / I am afraid / of forgetting / but I am more afraid / of remembering

#414 used to think he was destined for the rose fields of Grasse. Musk ratios. Narcotic fumes. Extracting of the absolute. But he never learned French, was the thing.

It’s easy for people to believe that the paths they chose happen coincidentally to be correct. Nobody scoffs at Methodists like a pastor born to Presbyterians. And it’s the same for professors in the Initiatives. They belittle their competitors because if either program succeeds the other will surely die.

This is my own work. These lab mice died of swollen, broken hearts