Colonials

Angels dancing on pins are nothing to us.
Those celestials number thousands,
harpies with harps, slippery butterflies.
Bring the formeldehyde, I say,
and still their antic twists.
We live in millions, simple stars,
galaxies that give no light.
A bone slung hammock,
a fleshy divan,
your body transports us
as we rock, divide, and redivide.
Under the curved
frowns of your fingernails,
on the flaky deserts of your head,
we plant our sprawling flag.
Any crevice is our castle, your mouth
a plunge-pool for our disport.
Arise, Sir Realm, Lady Habitat.
King Bacillus is well pleased.

P.S. Cottier
bigstock-Realistic-rendering-of-bacteri-12759224

Really, these little things rule the world; a successful form that’s been around a lot longer than we have, and which may outlast us.

Sucked in, hm?

Now, press this feather to read more, possibly less infectious, poetry:
Tuesday Poem