Ars Poetica

Grasshoppers swimming in formaldehyde jars,
Bound by the bars of merciless concave lenses
And shiny, sharp edges that probe and point
At hinges and joints to learn and preserve
Where it is that the nerve endings are
In the midst of that jar. But the fact
That they miss, in white jackets, is not
In the jar, locked up by the bars. It's
Lost in the grit that the grasshoppers
hopped in before.