We come into the afternoon as the ant, scaling
until we touch each horizon
and measure every corner on six pins.
Our world marked prick by prick.
We must be the only,
omniscient and looking down at the sky.
Clenching each bit of spongy blue in our jaws,
we spit it out and it is good,
each path moved at our will.
If we hear the rumblings of distant gods,
they are ignored or imagined: In the beginning,
we lifted out crumpled dead to the edge of the universe.
Nothing takes them away from us, so, turning from silence,
we leave the departed and return to our creation.
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