One day

the technicians

touched souls

as they exchanged

everyday noises

above the pipette.

Then they knew

that the state of molecules

was not humdrum.

The inscriptions

on the specimen jars

which lined the room in racks

took fire in their minds:

what were yesterday

mere hieroglyphs

from the periodic table

became today urgent proof

that even here -

laboratory life -

writing is mystical.

The jars glinted under their labels:

it had taken fifteen years

to collect and collate them.

Now the pair were of one mind.

Quietly, methodically

they removed the labels

from each of the thousands

of jars. It took all night.

At dawn, rows of bare glass

winked at their exhausted coupling

against the fume cupboard.

Using their white coats

as a disguise

they took their places at the bench

and waited for the morning shift.

• From Jo Shapcott's collection of poetry, Her Book, published by Faber (£8.99).
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