The quake last night was nothing personal，

    you told me this morning. I think one always wonders，

    unless， of course， something is visible： tremors¹

    that take us， private and willy-nilly， are usual.

    But the earth said last night that what I feel，

    you feel； what secretly moves you， moves me.

    One small， sensuous² catastrophe³

    makes inklings letters， spelled in a worldly tremble.

    The earth， with others on it， turns in its course

    as we turn toward each other， less than ourselves， gross，

    mindless， more than we were. Pebbles⁴， we swell⁵

    to planets， nearing the universal roll，

    in our conceit⁶ even comprehending the sun，

    whose bright ordeal⁷ leaves cool men woebegone.

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