I apologize
as I squish
the green worm
that’s been feasting
on the basil leaf.
It does not change
the fact that the worm
is dead. And the basil
now will live.
Yesterday, my friend Carl
stopped me on the street
and wondered aloud
how we die
to the moment,
then greet the next.
He did not,
of course mean
a literal death.
The basil leaf
has a hole in it now
where the green worm
is not. I pick it
and eat it myself,
not out of spite,
perhaps
to feel how the worm
and I are not
after all
so different.