Gordon T. Taylor, "Diatoms: NOAA At The Ends of the Earth," 1983
My fingertips, light on a jelly jar, yours near mine, as we raise the dead—these are the things we’d do for art. We didn’t think to ask after our dead beloveds, then. I
wish now we had, not to disturb our fond dead, but to have taken comfort in a longer good-bye. We who stumble through uncertainty
in our shape-shifting skins—watch as the glass rings each letter, fast then faster, “L” then “O,” dancing towards “V” and “E,” then “U.” An
alphabet, spelling wishes as gifts; arabesques of touch/no-touch, all our longing, scribed in tempos as intimate, familiar as a heartbeat.
The other side of the board, the side the cup doesn’t glide upon, is lit in the absence of light—pin- pricked with souls, as improbable as joy, as beautiful as diatoms.