Let me at them, devil’s batteries
or toxic scarabs though they be, leeching
from strata of Chernobyls and Pompeiis
or seismic forge, the same force
that blasts the tree’s roots, blasted roots
of Madame Curie’s hair; and soon enough
will sear our leering skulls on the calendar.

Once I shunned them, blank on whether
they were pods of homeopathy or
slow explosion of decay. But
these days, I more dread standing on
the wrong corner when Carnaval sambas by.

Perched on three reels of backstory, each
a score of years, our uncut un-hero
(his half-life more, yet less than half)
reaches over the throbbing fence for a charge.