Music is composed of notes, the body
of dust motes. Arrangement determines
color, size, shape. Open the shades.
See: dust motes twirl in ball gowns
of light, a floating suspension in slightest
movement as though they existed in alternate
ambit. String Theory speaks of eleven
dimensions: length, width, depth, time—
seven others undefined, coordinates
that serve to locate matter even if
it is rolled up like a sheet of paper.
This is the poetry of physics, poetry
of that common constituent which,
in the end, we must all kiss: dust.
—Published in The Dryland Fish