< Volume II: Issue 2 >
Pareidolia
by Charles Byrne
Ant?
Under the uninterpretable piece
of matter that strikes me as a tiny leaf of clay
with a bite removed, and that is clearly
a thousand times your weight and many times
your volume, so that I see nothing but a tiny
clay leaf moving on the ground, puzzling me,
until I surmise that you think I cannot see you
under there –
ant, what the fuck are you doing?
You will take your giant clay leaf back to the nest,
where the other tenants will make way for you
and your monstrous prize, which you will cram,
and fold, and cram, and heave, for what is a year
in ant time of your ant life, until the item somehow
fits down the entrance tunnel, where you drag
and drag it, while the other workers tap their tarsi,
and grind their mandibles, and roll their compound eyes,
waiting, until you get it down to your preferred chamber,
where it will sit, unmoved, the clay leaf, and no one will
know what the fuck it’s for, even though you just carried
this thing, which blocked out the sun, and weighed
a thousand times you, over your head, for the ant
equivalent of a hundred miles, so that you could
set it down there, inert, where all it does is serve
as the concluding emblem of some sort of parable
for non-ants. Whereas this other ant I saw near
a neatly disassembled scarab beetle carried off
a whole barbed leg, which, while still impressive,
makes a whole lot more sense, when you think
about it.
But perhaps I misunderstood you, ant.
It is possible, after all.
Pareidolia
by Charles Byrne
Ant?
Under the uninterpretable piece
of matter that strikes me as a tiny leaf of clay
with a bite removed, and that is clearly
a thousand times your weight and many times
your volume, so that I see nothing but a tiny
clay leaf moving on the ground, puzzling me,
until I surmise that you think I cannot see you
under there –
ant, what the fuck are you doing?
You will take your giant clay leaf back to the nest,
where the other tenants will make way for you
and your monstrous prize, which you will cram,
and fold, and cram, and heave, for what is a year
in ant time of your ant life, until the item somehow
fits down the entrance tunnel, where you drag
and drag it, while the other workers tap their tarsi,
and grind their mandibles, and roll their compound eyes,
waiting, until you get it down to your preferred chamber,
where it will sit, unmoved, the clay leaf, and no one will
know what the fuck it’s for, even though you just carried
this thing, which blocked out the sun, and weighed
a thousand times you, over your head, for the ant
equivalent of a hundred miles, so that you could
set it down there, inert, where all it does is serve
as the concluding emblem of some sort of parable
for non-ants. Whereas this other ant I saw near
a neatly disassembled scarab beetle carried off
a whole barbed leg, which, while still impressive,
makes a whole lot more sense, when you think
about it.
But perhaps I misunderstood you, ant.
It is possible, after all.
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