I crush ants with my thumbs. They are
merchant thirsty on the ledge of the sink.
Other ants make funeral arrangements
home at the Hill –
swaddled in tiny postage stamp flags,
killed in service to the queen.
Whenever I open the bathroom light,
three or four ants on the ledge of the sink,
in their gray flannel suits, and silicon skins,
combing the porcelain desert for nectar.
One ant I name Paul and pluck his left antenna
like a nose hair.
Circles Little Paul goes in,
he goes in circles dragging around his
Will to Life,
relearning what is
HIM and what is
NOT HIM and what is
LEFT and what is
RIGHT.
I spit on him,
he staggers away from the endless drain.
I open the tap,
and he clings to the smoothness.
The water is hot now, and down the
drain, the ant I have chosen to name
is free in the oblivious abyss.
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