Two wandering across the porcelain¹

    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 antennae²

    "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 sickle³

    moons of their abdomens⁴， 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， . . .