An atom’s 99.9%
nothing at all. The world’s an empty place.
Its solid shapes are objects we invent
to give a form to nuclei and space.
But these constructions aren’t exactly fake—
it hurts when, as a test, we kick a stone;
electrons charge across the void and make
illusions hard enough to break a bone.
Outside the window, photons waver, glow,
collapsing to what matters here: your bright
blue scarf, dark hair; a body that I know
is not a trick of late November light.
You and I—more than a thought, thin air—
unique arrangements of what isn’t there.