What Bacteria Say to Each Other

I would rather not talk about forms of existence.
I am, I've heard, and, so, are you, but only because
Someone, me, has told himself we do. The murk
And motion hereabouts, the pointless circulation
Of the endlessly divisible components of the
Stuff that gathers into clots in empty space,
Is something, if we will it so, but, otherwise,
It's simply process. We, as eddies, are, when
Seen, but, elsewhere, on a slide or in a forest
In a place a dozen magnitudes more grand
Than this, we pass unnoticed, and, because
We do, we don't exist.

poem by Lawrence Beck
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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