if you lay your cheek to the wet mud and do not move
for several springs at least, watch the ants march
underground. growing and fighting and winging
and dying for several sprints, at least. at least, they know
nothing but the lick of rain and the smell of sugar
and so you must become like them, Orpheus, and they
will teach you how to become so small that you can travel
down their tunnels where they bear their corpses to Hades
to lay their queens at his feet, as you must, as you will.
Just adding a thousandth poem to the litany concerned with my beloved myth.
(I’m writing a poetic fragment every day. Each piece is drawn from a segment of experience, thought, emotion, what have you, that takes place in each 24-hour period.)