I. Quantum physics
To you, I could be everywhere at once.
I could be in a train to Victoria station,
counting the books I've just borrowed,
feeling their hard spines.
I could be cutting onions in a shared kitchen.
I could be sipping a drink (you taught me
its name) in a pub, with another man.
I could be, why not, in a post office,
sending you this poem.
To you, I could exist in all times, all places.
I could be back on the mountain top
where the tilted tree laid.
You must remember its shade –
it shaded our secretive moving hips.
Or the beach – the beach
where you peeled me a banana, a peach.
I could be once again heart-dancing
in your bathtub; you created a small tempest
by stepping in. We compared whose toes
were longer, faking innocence.
Only when you go out and find me
standing near the small fountain of floating leaves,
you can be sure I am in one particular place.
You walk toward me, early morning,
no birds sing, the world believes,
and all other possibilities crumble to dust.
But I know I am anywhere now, to you.
In an oblivion between memories.
Because you have stopped looking,
the smudgy bit defines me.
II. Quarks and electrons
Everything is made of quarks and electrons:
You, me, you inside me, you outside me,
you with me in your mind, you without me.