If it is true that in our universe nothing ever disappears
But is transmuted into new arrangements of neutrons, electrons, genes,
That a scientifically explicable process intervenes
Between the loss and some new incarnation
Even though we ourselves can only slowly and then not in all cases
Retrieve the names to go with the faces
Of old friends or detested colleagues, of authors and titles, of times and places
Where things happened; can the hoard we have painstakingly amassed
Be stocked somehow in bytes on floppy discs, if not to last
Forever, at least to disintegrate by successive half-lives over several millennia?
How nice it would be to believe in a collective unconscious, a kind of electronic attic
Where entropy holds no key and our chosen heirs have access.
Rather it seems more likely that our missing synapses
Will resurface as dust on a window sill, spirals in a DNA chain or interplanetary static.
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|Date:||Dec 1, 1987|
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