can't really be measured;
the heart of any process
has a process for a heart,
and the scientists charged
with chopping stuff apart
keep on finding substrates
and smaller bits and pieces.
I'm guessing that's why
the farther we go spinning
away from that dark mystery
at the crux of where we fit,
the more dependent we grow
on the truth of its existence:
the irritating sand grain
which gave the pearl its start;
that hole between the lips
of the first person we ever kissed;
the absolute fixed dead center
of a life we never intended to live—
wherever that was
or is.
