Randall Watson

The Desire for Wildness

An ant in its desire for wildness

enters the house, through a crack

in the door-frame, a gap in the sill,

then scurries across the gleaming linoleum

counter, descends the slick walls

of the porcelain sink, still damp,

where it circles, tracing the bleached

perimeter, the soft sloped curl

of its easy corners, till it finds

at the heart of the fabricated stone,

the drain, like a pit, a planet

that opens inwards, like the mouth

of a night blooming flower

with its seductive perfume,

which the ant, curious, singular,

enthralled, approaches,

stepping out onto the metal

rim, easing itself

toward the dark funnel,

its twin antennae twitching

like the legs of a hanged man

to announce its arrival.

O the strength of the ant, we say,

who tunnels the depths of the earth

to make its home.

O the industrious ant, we croon,

which rises to gather the sparks of the day.

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