Our poems are wordstacks. Each voltaic pile, Once read, is replaced by Something more --why? What do we do this for? One forces a charge Up a column of copper And disks of zinc. One arranges in proper Order all large and small Ideas --one thinks And puzzles then learns To write all over again. Each irreducible spark Awaits its sudden arc From foil layers in a Leyden Jar, what a poem is And what we are --ideas.