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werewolf
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peer into a bivouac, where dirt
has learned to march.
look at the slight
distinctions between an ant's body and its eyes,
like slight imperfections in a perfect stone;
unearth its steely and reflective, continuous, but predictable, deepenings, night skies in a starless june.
the underground patterns swerve into intensities and frequencies
we dumbly smooth over,
like a child drawing outside the lines: complexities
a stoop away from our basic level.
life is held in impulsive jaws.
how easy it is to stop existing.
bodies of ants twisted and smeared
become only a break in some signal,
a confusion in the path
of other ants under the drone
of ancient instruction,
for a second having no answer,
having only the feel, the texture,
something new to carry.
the remains are often cannibalized,
they drive on for that one meal,
over and over again one meal.
timelessness is only possible without yesterday and tomorrow.
a comrade is no longer a comrade,
if the scent isn't right.
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030112
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