• Madrugada


    An ant steps on the page I’m writing on,
    looks about, pauses carelessly, like a
    practiced actor in a comedy.

    It doesn’t seem to know where it is,
    or how it got there, but is trying
    to make the best of it.

    At times it seems to be shadowing my
    pen, like a critic; at others it seems
    to be guiding my hand.

    As the midnight stars wester, the ant
    and my poem race to the
    bottom of the page.


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