Two wandering across the porcelain

    Siberia， one alone on the window sill，

    four across the ceiling's senseless field

    of pale yellow， one negotiating folds

    in a towel： tiny， bronze-colored antennae

    "strongly elbowed，" crawling over Antony

    and Cleopatra， face down， unsurprised，

    one dead in the mountainous bar of soap.

    Sub-family Formicinae （a single

    segment behind the thorax）， the sickle

    moons of their abdomens， one trapped in bubbles

    （I soak in the tub）； with no clear purpose

    they come in by the baseboard， do not bite，

    crush bloodless beneath a finger. Peterson's

    calls them "social creatures，" yet what grim

    society： identical pilgrims， . . .