Magnifying Glass

No one

would burn

your name

for not seeing

the ant’s

careful antennae

testing the air

next to your

shoe, six legs

almost rowing

it along. Who

would be upset

if you brushed one

off-handedly off

your arm, undone

by the tiny

steps: what do

they want,

you ask — unaware

that they breathe

through their

sides. Do they

sleep? Do they

dream

anything? No

one should

mark your soul

short     if you

mash one: when

two ants meet

there’s no tongue

for hello — it’s a

bug, a nearly

less than

little thing: at most,

made to chisel

crumbs

under the fridge

with eyes that,

even in brightest

day, see not reds

or greens but gray

and gray again.

Who would

curse your life

if you bring out

the Raid?

How many

books have they

read? — that

brain    a virtual

speck. Is all

they carry

really work

or just some

dumb old daily

ado? — the heart

spending

what blood, what

prehistoric nudge

on that

handsome,

brittle head.