No one will ever feel those minute temors,that career of particlesdisguised as person, place, and thing.Whatever we walk on is a kind of water.It is as though the Material, too,had an Unconscious, the rudimentshidden everywhere in the open,coaxed out also by guileless questionswith estranging answers.
Faint arc of scintillations,so alien to the world as seen,and yet that world entirely:Rutherford, his small brass box,the Cavendish Laboratory,Cambridge, Europe, and all else.Cold revelation! Yet it is follyto wish it more creaturely,more our own. Given who we areand were, even before such knowledgelent us the eyes and then the hands of gods,is it a providence that the germ of thingsis free of purpose and remorse.
