A beautiful outlaw ghazal
Opportunistic engine of infection, budding plasma of bread. You inject the bubbles
in booze, convert a quaff of carbon dioxide into beer. You live in camps like our own bubbles.
Colonizing stomachs of pollinators, filling a floral ovary, surviving as brisk, toxic wafts
of air, you play an unjust god to quaint forms of animation. You gas up human guts, bubbling.
You pickle veggies. You survive every environment, producing your own helpful
enzymes: extrusions to success. Your jurisprudence is extreme. You don’t require bubbles
even though you make them—extrajudicial byproduct, maybe—your influence an azimuth.
It won’t be the meek who inherit the quarantined earth, reduced to a climate-damaged bubble
like a squeaking balloon. Or a freak cockroach. Or even a jackhammering virus. You will:
Candida. Saccharomyces. Leucosporidium. Puzzle pieces, assembled in your asexual bubble.