for cold fusion
There is no elegant answer.
Better living through chemistry
arrived by coach, spitting blood,
cocking a suspecting eye at
the trying times of magic.
At the Hatterie I tried on headware,
looking at my reflection, waiting a moment.
Different lids for different jars.
Waiting, my mind wandered into the
age of discovery where a cold meal
of contingent sandwich and ale
led to a nap, the nap to
rummaging in a dream, the
dream carrying the occult out
the back door in a small red
leather satchel where a carriage
awaited departure. It was late.
It was a discovery that would
not tolerate the darkness.
I realized I would have to speak
in numbers, reason, elegant formulas, tongues.
All to prove what is.
"What if I can't prove what this is that exists?" I heard myself shout.
The driver leaned down from his perch. "It's all imagination, isn't it!"
Back at the Hatterie I noticed the hat on my head.
A dark brown, floppy fedora.
Someone like me was tapping the source.
Someone was dreaming at the same glass
of water I was holding. Bare-headed,
another philosophical eye.
Nothing in hand.
Likewise the water showed nothing.