WHERE ARE THE ANTS RUNNING TO?

where are the ants running to? under the beams of the house? within the electrical wiring? into the internal secrets of the plumbing? are they in quest of the house's secret hiding place? where mice, insects and bees gather for communal dinners under the nose of the burghers who think their lives are in perfectly respectable order? poets debate such things. splitting hairs across the marvelous terrain of the universe. gears sputtering. the sun spreading its warmth like butter on freshly baked bread. philosophizing about the secrets laying under the surface of everything. the disgust gathering for years under the thick shag carpet/the dust of the withered rose shattering like so many pieces of crushed glass under the ballerina's slippers/the booming of shotguns in the distance snagging a gaggle of geese. sit. be patient. watch the ants collecting crumbs. measuring up the moral dilemna of us all. carrying off the small infinitesimal things we shake off our shoulders like water splattering everywhere.

  bruce weber