Informing you to start the clock and
Mind your white-gloved fingers.
A three-ringed show. Blue bodies
Antagonise colleagues of grotesque growths
Embedded in thick jelly, conjuring litmus sorcery.
You squeeze out solution plops with your glass dropper,
As I prepare knives, noting their movements and
Trapeze ease. Clean releases. So to
Lines of tangled tissue suspended in
Lithe agar, quivering like tightropes,
Tense beneath our lenses. Fine scalpels
Prod the odd formation, prising flesh gels
Apart and mutilating our carefully calculated charts.
Microscopic melodrama. Subject of spectacle.
Stop the clock.
We scrutinise the molarity of all the imbibed chemicals,
Audit the apparatus and
Corroborate the papers. Were there
Defects in the method?
A congenitally flawed hypothesis?
Did my bloody hand tremble too much,
Did I lose my concentration?
Frustrated, I cleave the faulty specimens
to fractious slivers, and ask
If we can start the entire thin