To the Harvard Pathologist who Sold Body-Parts Online

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Dusk swallows modernity,
pimpled students withdraw to their own future,
and ancient winds swirl the leaves over cobblestones.

It is then, accompanied by the owls of the city,
that a regular apparition moves under a fleeting moon.
Like a ghost of Burke or Hare
it steals across the parking lot towards a waiting morgue.
Footsteps on venerable floors, doors creak,
panting down those countless winding stairs
to the bowels and intestines of academia.

And there it was,
the illuminated cold storage of many minds!
Jarred egg-heads and poetic hearts in formalin.
Who would not have bought a decapitation of Peirce,
or the preserved moustache of William James?
But one must take what life offers.
Then the giggling tomb raider
flings a sack of spoils over his shoulder:

“How stupid they all are! Naive to the last.
These relics of preserved flesh
will fetch a fortune on the open market!
No need……. no need whatsoever,
to inflate tuition fees.”

by Michael Henrik Wynn

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