Clade Song 15

Floaters

On an island in the center of an island, you turn your thoughts to spittlebugs. But like the spotted dogs that can’t be seen until you know they’re there, you can’t see them, can’t imagine seeing them. So you say they don’t exist. (There’s no denying the appeal of negation.) But then, just like that, you catch sight of one passing through its phlegm like a filament in the eye that slips away as you look at it. And you think again.