Keep poetry simple, like
a single ant atop a blueberry,
catching the light without shining.

Don’t overthink it. Taste the fruit
with your mandibles; if it’s to your liking,
tear off some flesh; if it’s not too much,

ferry the rest to your kind. Or crawl on:
the kitchen is littered with crumbs
and leftovers, honey stains, sugar granules

resisting the mop. Put down the mop.
The soles of your feet are meant
to ferry fur and dust from one home to the next,

and nothing on Earth exists just for you:
not air, not your fine China, not the ideas
rattling around in your head like car parts

that hardly ever fit together. You worry
something is about to happen and you won’t
have time to figure it out before it does. So pack a bag,

replace your frayed shoelaces. But never
wait. For what if you shaped history more
than it shaped you? Could you live with yourself

then, you and your crossed-out lines and furrowed
brow? The ant looks up from its blueberry at your raised foot.
Everything depends on your answer.