Ants

ants. a whole bloody lot of them.

when all of them cry at midnight

the earth swells up in waves

and many think that the earth is crying

but it’s really the ants.

there’s one climbing up the grandfather clock

through the round plate of time

with memories of forgetting in its mouth

and a pistol aimed at its heart

because it’s at that tiny blank space between the dot and the stroke of i

that funny things happen

I have noticed them happening lately

ants creep and crawl along timeless tombs of moss,

cross Rubicon

and march away to crude, ancient eternity

mist eat up old elephant

six seasons of longing,

nine rings of rectitude

lash out of angry eyes of blind judges

the phantoms act their parts out,

the puppeteer takes out her trombone

and tigers turn to their own shadows for mercy

And all these happen

because dogs in dogged coitus on midnoon swelter

take us through sixteen million eclipses

and to sparrows who wanted to be Bach

but settled for crumbs instead

like our blind maestro who burned his violin

like the anger of Caliban when Orpheus looks back

like heartless roosters hooting for Cinderella

like Laika, blessed, boiled by the specter of science

like mother and father who make love every moment to create time

like you looking at me now

like me writing of you looking at me now

like our seven mirrored mirage

like the fox whose oversexed uncle died

like the music of hemlock

like fury, madness and slaughterhouse miracles

like Jupiter mauling Juno’s breasts

like hatred

like terror

like this relentless monstrosity of decay and defeat

but there are more ants on earth than things worth knowing in life and death

and when they start weeping

the world drowns every night