At the soles of passing shoes,
on the road no one travels,
the place ants have invented
a specific feeler wave: Rock Land.
It isn’t all bad, the fixed monotony
of the day, shuffling from place
to place with a bit of leaf fragment,
granules of undigested sugar,
a fallen comrade’s body.
A simple sexless society; exist
to work for the collective, ensure
the survival of the commune.
Marxis, or a greater monastic order?
One scampers over scaled-down
mountains, going around those
that seem too much effort
for a quick run, almost mindlessly
(maybe they’re evolved beyond minds).
They are content, while the heat
of the day begins to make the back
of your neck itch with impatience.
There is something else to be done,
a task not yet complete.
Shouldn’t we begin asking
when are we going to be unlike
Sisyphus and let our stone drop?
