The tiny things of this world—
crumbs, electrons, spiders
(the ones whose legs are thin
as hair, the small black kind
that jump) as well as specks
of dust, fine needles fallen out
of their thread, a hitchhiking
seed, caught in the groove of a shoe,
the neutrino—
Are they too small
for gravity? You can never find them
because they have jumped
sideways—
like the spider,
or like the valence electron—
and become mere probability,
a scintilla of possible spiders—
never where you expect them.
And there are days like this,
and moods. Sometimes
whole feelings vanish, too small
to be seen—
only to reappear
and shake every foundation.