The Ants

Brad Bostian

Grains unnumbered sift their way every night
To the floor. I never knew there were ants
Enough or bits of my house enough to fall
And from the sand of my hard-earned sleep
Make the dust of time to greet me
In the bathroom when I wake up.

What could they possibly accomplish?
Is the dream that is my house too tall?
At this rate a thousand years could pass
Without a noticeable hollowness
To the walls and windows of the house,
Yet their work continues like politics,
Or like my own unheralded writing.


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