by Arthur Nahill
Nothing is
where it appears to be
in this indifferent
winter light
full of photons
and radiance
simultaneously particulate
and wavelike
the way an invading army
might look from sufficient
distance
each man burdened
by his private dread
yet part of a fearless tide
engulfing the landscape.
And if it’s true
that like the light
I am a loose aggregation
of the discrete
and the discontinuous
perhaps that is why
I can sometimes feel it
passing through me
like soldiers
through the Ardennes
countless numbers of them falling
yet a miraculous few emerging
on the farthest side
intact but indelibly
altered by the journey.
