The letters come first

Letters drop themselves singly onto the page,
Surrounded by influences they bear,
Each making an entourage with the others.

None has a definite precursor, lineage or destiny.
And, as with the collisions in a particle accelerator,
Are infinitely and minutely observed in the making of themselves.

The force of each arrival contains itself in
Indistinct possibility, painful choices, and
The elements' frequent stony refusal to adhere to coexistence.

I, like a parent, contribute only hopeful expectations,
Confounded guidance and perturbed acceptance
Of a mixture ready to disperse itself in an obscure, reincarnating quiet.