Selections from “Conversations Between Poetry and Physics,” #2

Photons

We never see them. They travel too fast.
Also, they’re massless … of the mysteries
We confront in nature, among the darkest:
Light has no mass — incomprehensible speed
And power to bind the nucleus together,
But no mass as it flows around and in us.

With math we can predict wonders of light,
But see it, never, only its echo
As it reflects from matter — nebulas,
Galaxies, stars, planets, water droplets,
Any of the mass emergencies energy
Curves, shapes, and folds across the universe.

Pause for a moment. You are right now
Sitting in light as light enlightens everything
In you, through you, and all about space-time
Through which you’re hurtling on an orb
You’re privileged to feel is fixed and stable.

But by chance did you check the weather tonight?

And yes, the weather inside you, as well,
Since that is not just a figure of speech,
Any more than the lightning outside
Is just a figure of meteorology,
Though you know it is, computed to limits
Of many decimal places in places
Decimated, too, by phenomena which
Are numbers as much as lightning flashes.

Try to feel the edge between math and mud.

Each is as real as the other, if “real”
Is the word you must use, energy and form
In folds enamoring each the other,
Much the better metaphor of interaction
In nature, sub-atomic and surface alike.

The “real” is always changing, which is why
Humankind cannot bear much reality
But must absorb a new understanding.

The photon serves as its own antiparticle
In waves in which is is equal to does,
Metaphysics answering to physics …
In the light was the beginning. Turbulence,
Not of things but of relationships that measure
Things, enfolding themselves among themselves
For their physics, sustains our perception,
Too slow for the real, to engage the physical
And, curiosity aroused by sense,
Experience metaphors of experiment
Which accelerate the mind to infinity.

Our eyes follow the light all the way down
Toward the absent presence of origin:
The point-non-point of singular intension,
The profusion of masses in waves of light,
The flow of energy to the break of love.

Hold on — careful, not too tight … it explodes.
Let go, but only when light enraptures you.

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