Swarms of uncaring, unknowable life-forms
squidge through you at every moment
over your eyeballs, and across your tongue
as it tastes that strawberry
that teems with their brethren.
And some day, they will chew up your corpse
and ferment the sugar into blood
into alcohol, that the screaming, grieving friends
you leave behind, won’t even get to drink.
On the other hand, boots exist
and if you wear them
when you stomp through the mud
to pick blackberries from your garden
after a rainstorm,
your feet stay dry.
So you’ve got that going for you.