Two wandering across the porcelain Siberia, one alone on the window sill, four across the ceiling's senseless field of pale yellow, one negotiating folds in a towel: tiny, bronze-colored antennae "strongly elbowed," crawling over Antony and Cleopatra, face down, unsurprised, one dead in the mountainous bar of soap. Sub-family Formicinae (a single segment behind the thorax), the sickle moons of their abdomens, one trapped in bubbles (I soak in the tub); with no clear purpose they come in by the baseboard, do not bite, crush bloodless beneath a finger. Peterson's calls them "social creatures," yet what grim society: identical pilgrims...
View from a Temporary Window
Follow the wrecking ball: in a month, it will smash into this glass like that housefly. A blueprint unfolds on a table beside an orchid doubled- over with white blooms, and out the window, just half a bridge dives into the front page of a newspaper the neighbor lifts from her balcony. Partial to more, we're beckoned outward, beyond the foundation: and a new picture window will jut over the cliff to frame all the Golden Gate's red seismograph, which cuts through the fog to the headlands. In a year, in wingback chairs we'll sit in the air high above those tiny people strolling the crumbling sill down on Bay Street, out there where the orchid's reflection hovers with a flock of gulls.