Forever one thing facing another as I am facing each thing on my desk.  That is the way it seems to be.  Things in communion with each other.  Whenever I reach for pens, the lamp, a paper clip, dictionary, the chipped coffee cup, there is always a conversation between us of varying intensity, a warble of attitude that occurs within the Planck realm, that is, within the smallest interval of space and time.  Each little song of radar is  accordioned onto a lenth of  10^-33 centimeters.  Anything smaller would not be meaning- ful.  Such chitchat lasts 10^-43 seconds, which is the time it takes light to travel the Planck length.  Needless to say, this genre of conversation is not audible but does have quantum effects.  It is responsible for the tiny cactus that sprouts on particular memories and ideas.  It sometimes results in poetry, blatant and embarrassing declarations of love, as well as spiritual competence.  It is why some people talk to burning bushes.  Reaching for the pen, a quip passes between us.  The lamp, a colloquy.  With the dictionary, there is always a tête-à-tête.  Twisting the paper clip, one of us begins to tattle, and a slurp from the chipped coffee cup inevitably results in a bon mot.  But when I pick up this nearly finished poem there is only an in-your- face silence, the quicksilver infinitely mirrored kind that arrives just before the blind date.  Will there be an awkward kiss?  Or simply galaxies of promise while saying goodnight. 
 

Copyright 2001,  Molly McGee