Ant

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ANT


Semi-colon on the white page 

of countertop, your pilgrimage 

suspended by a thieving thumb 

all evidence now indicates belongs

to me, was it for jealousy of your 

innate ability to penetrate to the core 

of things, or just a murderous act

of boredom?, the smeared link 

of your little abdomen not ink 

enough to adequately answer such

an inquiry, our many questions

unconcluded as the world buggers on—

hungry—probing for a period

like a crevice in the cupboard

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