This solid-seeming earth’s a mist, a rolling
sea of subatomic particles. It takes a day like this,
when tectonic plates sing out like struck bells,
to put us straight. What we know as solid
isn’t—a seething, shifting mass.
Made of the same stuff as that
old redwood, we rise like bracket
fungus, overnight and all the many
cities that we build are made of air.
Perhaps geologists, in their spotless
coats, probing and measuring, so sure
in what they know, will any minute feel
the jolt, and fall down on their knees, afraid.