Friday, June 26, 2020


Somewhere inside, you know 
the ground 
you meander around on

is practically vertical—
but you 
don't really.

Really, you think 
you're on top of things, 
you think 

you can hide, you can run;
you think you're stuck
or sinking. 

But none of these 
makes a lick of sense from 

the superior perspective—
no matter what you do, 

no matter where you go
or how you live, 
you're an infinitesimally 

tiny protozoan 
faced with the prospect 
of certain grim death—and yet

there you are clinging 
to your crucible's face 
and lashing your flagellum 

with the strength 
of a billion 
neutron stars exploding 

and to the amusing—
perhaps maybe even 
a little inspiring,

but highly illogical—
of surviving.