TESLA
The beehive in which his peace
of mind hides
its bladeless turbine
as if not to be disturbed
by the world’s greater flux
hangs by a swollen branch
which, from the inside,
has already soured,
so that what’s most likely to set off
if not summon
Nikola’s last holy swarm of ideas
conjuring some ray of death
is not Edison’s sweet tooth or Marconi’s grubby paw,
but this squirrel’s sudden sway in its scrabble for nuts.
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