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Tiny, percussive pulses,
Blowing by molecules of moisture and Siamese gases,
That are left trembling slightly.

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Our compulsion is to atomize the world and our own existence,
Blind to the anonymity of, say, a wave, in perfect curl, disappearing
into itself.
We see the individual particles of spray.
The thing defined.

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My son, amused at suddenly understanding that
Sight is a trick of light after all.
Just as the sky appears to be wide open,
Or a door solid, only because we are too large to pass between
its atoms.
It’s all a matter of perspective.

And that interesting word, wave.

Well, what wave? Which wave? They’re suddenly everywhere
and everything.

“What can walk on water?” my son asks.
“Insects,” I reply.
“No. Real animals, “ he persists.
“Something,” I say. “Something.”