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， . . .