On the scale of galaxies, the bubbles in my glass of champagne,
the light upon my fingers as I hold it this night, do not exist.
These perceptions, so real to me in this moment,
are, in the macroscopic reckoning of the cosmic engine,
as conjectural as quarks are to my own consciousness,
supposed to truly exist by faith alone.
On the scale of galaxies, these bubbles, these fingers, this light
are virtual things, untouchable, unreadable, invisible and only weakly implicate.
Yet they exist, without faith and unnegated, all the same.