by Barry Ballard

    When the earth is tempered， compressed and cooled

    in the heavens like something somber

    and inanimate， I wonder if we'll

    be photographed， our spectrum smudged and framed

    on someone's laboratory floor， each hue

    of color speaking of how we were conquered

    by our own base elements. They'd peel

    back the layers， speculate about the chain

    of our history， if it was sung

    or written， if their probes could still find it

    in the chipped palms of our carbon fists， carrying

    off the frozen samples where the small sum

    of our "soul of ideas" would be cupped

    like breathing ashes in their stainless steel hands.