There were waves that were things or waves
That only were in things, and I found more
Mystery in the latter. A sheet of light,
A radiating shimmer from a source was weird
In the earlier sense, spooky and powerful,
But the wave that had no existence except
As a passing distortion, a compression
And an expansion of the relationships
Among phenomena that were never waves,
Moved beyond weirdness, however normal
The experience of it was—old mossy pond
Splash, the pulse of your slow whisper
In my sobbing ear, the rustling of papers
In a room empty of souls, the contraction
And expansion of the local space-time curve
By an event so great and so ancient
A million million worlds as detailed as ours,
Every last life since the dawn of life included,
Every event, every dimension, every memory
A million million times collapsed—to stranger.
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