Scientists say—
the middle of something
can't really be measured;
the heart of a process
has a process at its heart,
and you can always
keep zooming in, perpetually
chop it apart
and find smaller pieces.
Which is why,
instead of declaring,
I've always been fine
with just guessing—
that the farther
and farther
out I'd go spinning,
the more dependent I'd grow
on that tiny grain of sand
which lent the pearl
its mystery, that invisible
talisman of confidence
which doesn't exist,
that hole between the lips
of an old first kiss:
my exact center
of mass—
wherever it was
or is.
