Dark in the corridors of veins
lie my discarded genes.
In its zeal, nature moved on
without cleaning up, left me untidy
within my improved self.
In much the same way,
the Codex Sinaiticus grew.
The translation of Mark, for example,
patiently copied by female scribes,
was embellished by monks,
who added women to Gethsemane
and an opened tomb;
however, with chutzpah
left the original on the vellum,
like rubbish, for us to find;
useless now except as a history trace
– like an appendix, or gills –
of their ramshackle orthodoxy.
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