in those disorienting
little white blips
which appear
and dance zigzags
when you shut
and clench
your eyelids;
which seem to flaunt
consequence
and silently
push back
against your mind's
own disorienting-
but-steadfast denial
of what you
could never call
absolute black—
that's where
the very last and
as-yet unexplained
mystery that's left
in all of modern
physics lives:
that tiny
but stubbornly
irreducible constant,
that little corpuscle
of troublesome
noise in the signal
which laypeople
still call their sense
of intuition.
