We watch a show about coronal mass ejections,
huge bursts of magnetic fields and solar wind
that, if large enough, could bring our civilization
to its end. The next day I go out and buy a new shirt
and at night I curl around you as we slip warmly
into sleep. We are made mostly of space, everything
is. Subatomic particles spin fast enough to give
the illusion of solidity. My feet donít fall through
the floor, you canít reach your hand into my chest, our
molecules are bound together by the electromagnetic force.
We live day to day in the shadow of disaster, two naked
apes enmeshed in the quantum weirdness of our little lives.
If you have any comments on this poem, Steve Klepetar would
be pleased to hear from you.