A tiny sound. Broken. Another.
Ants are secrets. Not many different tiny little secrets, but the same one, again and
An ant is a rude kiss, one you thought you didn’t want, but now that it’s here,
you’re not so sure. Why should you find that compelling?
Kiss him again. Gone.
How many wounds does it take?
A graceful increment of disappointments.
And now there is so much air between. You can’t breathe that much. (This takes
place in the stomach.)
I don’t know why I looked in the closet because I didn’t leave it there.
Guilt: The more I learn about you, the less you belong. I used to wonder about your
singing before I got to know you. I didn’t understand you arrive in pieces that don’t fit
together and leave like the stunned life of the party who broke and needed comforting
and finally disappeared when we started having fun again.
Between then and after there is still a moment beyond.
To keep it from becoming a public moment, you’ll have to surrender its contents.
One and one and one the ants arrive, but we can’t tell them apart. They’re all one mistake and then another. Even if it’s the same one. They can’t be taken back, but they can carry
something away, and they can happen over again.
One way to close my eyes is to see the same thing everyone else sees.
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.