In time you will be reassembled.
Returned as a chimera
of singular elements and
mutable parts, returned.
This your substance;
limb for wing, womb for chalice.
These your hands, a magnet for a pilgrim's
industrial land in a mountain
of cheap code. And your mind, symbols
and reams of morphological debris.
But today, right now the indifferent
look on your face digests
the leftover coffee and toast,
thumbs its way through a Sunday strip
and winces unaware to a caption
that reads, "Have heart."