Hospital Drive: A Journal of Word & Image

Table of Contents		Arthur Ginsberg

Baseline of the Soul

                        The brain men have convened in San Diego,
wunderkindt from the Brigham,
            Harvard and Hopkins, who perform
on Powerpoint when the lights go dim.
            Western blots of genes, schematics
of programmed cell death, little proteins
            with names like Caspase, Bax and Bim
flash across the screen, enough
            to make a neocortex blush
with the intimacy of it all, as if
            the smartest really believe
they will get to the bottom of our heads
            with knockout mice and missense nucleotides,
putting their probes into the most secret
            corners of our delight, enraptured
by nomenclature, obsessed
            with undressing mystery’s manikin
down to her wire and linen.

                   No wonder I flinch at coffee break
when these bow-tied voyeurs stuff
            their smug mouths with petite sandwiches,
and spec out name tags
            before pontification.
Creation draws her divine cloak tighter
            with each yelp of the onion skin,
every probe and assay, until
            the pilgrimage collapses into itself,
            vibrating like a shadow on snow,
indivisible as absolute zero.

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