I.

April made port.
The hordes of sand stood ready; surveilled
the eccentricities of April with a judging
eye. Lightwinds seem to sturggle pathing as if
they were still learning cantrips. No blood no magic.
All is well with my soul.

The crooning of the bony earth woke the
slumbering April-bud. It sang in seismic trembles.
We danced with the needles that recorded this symphony.
The ticking of your hair. The elevated pulses of
sharp, angled red; we rejoiced in the every spike.

Ruminations preserved.

II.

Sometimes, I wish there were
parking lots for ants in front of a bar
where they would swap stories while
drowning in vats of apple saliva.

Their antennae would sway to and fro,
and there would be proper queues which
would make the sight more stunning and
post-apocalyptic. There would be lots
of kissing. There would be courtesy and curtsies.
There would be stories about patriotism; how
they so love their Queen and would fight
for Queen and colony and breadcrumbs and peas.
There will be no discrimination; no one
shall look at one ant and say, “Hey, sugar-lover;”
the winged will fall in line as much as
the crawling red and black.

Ruminations reserved.

III.

O cold, cold, Earth, t’was your day, in echoing chime!
The miters sanctified by satyr priests bore bare
relations succinctly longed for and wanted! Godspeed!
The atmosphere wears its gown, the Aurora, in celebration!
The drum-line needs no motivating, it goes ever on, the snares
rumbling in sync with the fire-ants marching in time,
the fire-ants marching in time! Never before had a white flag
been as unnecessary. O cold, cold Earth,
cruise the orbit with this enchanting chanting, ever-going on.

Ruminations deserved.

IV.

The Queen is dead.
Long live the Queen.

*Ruminations unheard.