Two a.m.Ý The dog barks in the yard, and so
the child in her bed wakes up and whimpersóa synopsis
of the way one level stirs the next, to act out parts
that may well have their origin, for all we know, on levels
as primordially distant as the birth
of helium out of the quarky void, and as unfathomably
nano as the space between two particles of light.
Inhuman levels.Ý AlthoughÖ.Ý And neverthelessÖ.
Arenít we a final, single note
composed of a course of elements singing
of struggle and fusion?Ý Arenít Punch and Judy,
Zeus and Leda, macrosize retellings of the endless story
ìSperm and Eggî?Ý And so itís hard to figure
if the voice arrives from outside or somewhere
psychochemicalóNoah; Joan of Arc.Ý Our urges may be
a ventriloquism practiced by the stars
and by the dust among them.Ý Who knows what
the dog heard, and from what source?Ý I can only say,
having visited them the next day, that it tore its leash
and bolted through their insufficient slatwork fence
and headed for the pond, and thatówhile they
still sleptóthe child deftly left her bed and followed,
and drowned.Ý What good were my empty condolences?
Sherman, with his head in his arms; and Drew,
with her hand ineffectually on his shoulder;
and Ellen, attempting to hug them both
óthe atomic structure of grief.