which some physicists say may exist,
perhaps the husband actually asks

for forgiveness, head bowed,
confessing his offenses,

giving them their proper names—
this being one alternative

on a quantum scale that doesn’t mean
how it sounds—not epic, but small.

Then again, when she stares at memory’s
polychromatic walls, she thinks of Pollock’s

full-bodied swirls, how they imitate
the same geometry of galaxies,

& wonders whether her existence
preceded its essence, or the other way around,

while she walks along the floors of her future,
the night sky, her roof,

Earth’s lone moon, her window,
God’s good stars, particles

of light in the only life she knows.