Poem: Indian Point

If we were to find one day
that electrons were finite, rare
that the bright bits stripped in dynamos
sent out through the body of copper to the world
moving our trains
lighting our lights
stirred the dreams of lovers or the dead
reborn, scattered
as there’s air breathed by Napoleon or
Elvis in every breath,
would we shut it all down
the world a sanctuary for holy motes
or would we turn up the volume
worship our radios
fire great lights into night skies
tempered dark the place for final resting?