In that century before
      we entered the innermost atom,
they played games
             like Physionotrace:

assorted noses, eyes, and lips
      that could be placed
on the surfeit slate
             of a cutout face

and rearranged
      to form a Hottentot or Jew.
The question of race
             is still that inscrutable

God-in-a-box, back
      to the outermost Adam,
simple body siphoned
             like a water organ,

from whose subtle variations
      spring the complex
machine: trunk
             pulleyed by levers,

potato-headed predecessor.
      In the garden, he could choose
to grow or starve
             one flower

to force another
      to bloom—thus today
metamorphic industry,
             metaphoric as a bird

on the branch of a bare tree:
      curiosity, a kind of pain
consanguineous
             with conscience.

Is it sour or sweetness
      we desire
when we turn back
             to the code we've cracked,

as the Calvinists looked away
      from the Android Clarinetist,
physiognomy free
             from the defect

of imperfect individuality,
      not by any definition a man—
this kind of music
             wooden fingers make.