Perhaps you should stop reading now.
Continue and you may determine
whether this poem begins to live today
or if it be dead when read, as said.
There are words in this literal box.
Unseen, they are mere potential,
quick and late, a random quantum event
that may or may not be consummated.
Poems and probabilistic particles are kin.
Once examined, they change irrevocably:
a fox who turns toward you in a meadow,
a pond which ripples at the thrown stone,
a child who stirs when a shaft of light
falls upon the bed from the opened door.
Pause now upon that virtual threshold.
Will you turn that latch? Dare you peek?