How ants feel we feel

How ants feel we feel.
How prairies feel we drift too
from node to node of muscle
tasting as new honey in famine.
Who is this, who is this?
An emptier vessel of emptier ills
that flatten taut our locomotion
of words, how to talk to talk
when talk only knows to dam
the wind of our oiled throats.
Busy eating, busy eating,
always in bothers like we knew
we liked it most festered
in the gnaw of our minds: Who
is this, who is this I know?

When will the rain plug our home,
when will the ant-eater roost
over the small etchings we made
knowing not to read, only to eat?
We want only this corner gut,
we want only this corner to keep.
When words fail there are hands,
when words fail there is a multitude
of scents dragging behind us:
how ants feel we feel
as though making love on a spun wheel.

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~ by Jeremy on January 26, 2011.

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