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Lost Worlds: The Extinct
Deep in the Siberian permafrost
temptation is accumulating in little crystals
floating in the air
like breath.
The mammoth is a huge temptation.
It is as if time is stopped.
The cold is too thick to let the minutes pass.
Only the temptation is moving forward
collecting,
whispering,
“Certainly there could be cells in perfect order
only frozen
waiting to wake up to the returning sun
the way snow wakes
sublimating from ice to breath.”
It is a salvation plot
Dostoevsky might not have understood.
The cautionary lamb
struggles to her arthritic knees.
Telomeres ticking.
No cold is thick enough to stop
their bleating.
- - -
I don't especially like this poem, it isn't strong and I don't think it can be made strong. It is, however, very allusive. So allusive, it becomes obscure to everyone but me.
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Poetry Friday is at My Juicy Little Universe |
The second picture is of Dolly the Sheep, the famous clone, whose untimely death proved to be timely after all. There is no fooling telomeres.
Then there is Dostoevsky, who provided the yearning—and I blame him too, for the hovering veil of Christian symbology.
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