Within the earth
uranium is spitting out small pieces of itself
and, nucleus by nucleus
is turning, over aeons, into lead.
Inside his head
a random trigger trips, a cell winks out;
another dot, upon the ragged
canvas of his life, is turning white.
It would be comforting to know
how much is left;
to calculate the hour, the day
by when the rest of him – or half of it –
is gone; to learn the calm
uncaring rhythm of decay.
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