There is a certain margin of error
in the infinitesimal. Things could get lost
between molecules. In the forests
of microbial trees, waving
in primordial breeze, there are shadows
of things that might exist. Electrons dance,
dizzy steps we cannot follow. Everything asks
whodunit, in the amoeba world.
Look through a microscope into yourself.
You might see the fault lines
underneath your skin. You could draw
a road map, if only you knew where
Enclose yourself in small spaces.
In a place where there is only you,
cell walls, air molecules, there is
a certain margin of error. There is
room to walk beneath the trees. There is
no one to see your stumbling dance. There is
nothing to tell you whodunit.