“Thunder under open sky,” the jester king declared, “No levee left to hold the flood that eats the air.” “You’re talking nonsense, painted fool,” his friend replied, The scientist said calmly, “There is still some time.” Shadows slid across the roofs as rain began its work, Forty bolts and forty blades answered with a jerk. Quantum swelling, matter loosening its seams, A last, raw cry as physics comes apart in screams. Between the quarks, the thinking mind still hides, Aristotle rides his laws where reason bends and slides. Silver horse with human feet, no hooves to hit the ground, Falling through the weather into something darker— A groove without a sound.
