A mysterious beauty, the poem…
Suspicious, curious, fascinated,
we do what we must
to understand. But
analysis of beauty is not beautiful
There is scraping, cutting, and digging.
When whole, it is too hard to grasp.
The urge to take it to hand is too strong to resist.
We must insist. Must scrape, cut, dig
to make it comprehensible.
When at last we’ve seen enough
to satisfy our suspicion and curiosity,
we understand how grand a thing it was intact,
how terrible a thing we’ve done: The autopsy.
Sorry. We should at least have waited
until after it was dead.
But there are autopsies and then there are autopsies…