Ants

Somewhere inside me
is the past-tense
of an empty tea cup
and a novel with a broken spine.
Ants circle the rim,
crawl across the pages
in a search for nourishment
different from my own.
Words arranged like music
are a tome of silence
that smells sweetly
of years on a sunned shelf
where the dust,
from the big bang
nestles itself
on its own creation.
And I find
the ants and I
aren’t so different after all

One thought on “Ants

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