Classic Poem

There is clay, lime, silicon, salt
for the rationalist
and something
with a strange atomic weight.

Let Prospero whose I
is on a dandelion seed
give it a name
to disappear into
as softly
as a spider hurls a thread
and make it impervious
to theory
for although he is fanciful,
he loves
salt and iron,
and absolutes make him belch.