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.