Become flat foolish. Crickets
Don’t pulse small hours now, too cold.
Makes you think of Aesop’s ant,
Joyce’s ondt and gracehoper.
Truth in both. Ants rule the world,
But locusts are cannibals,
Desperate to stay ahead
Of each other’s mandibles,
Hardly just playful fiddlers
Making music for the dance
And boasting of no regrets.
Most fools work hard to be fools,
To make an honest living
Keeping the well-off confused,
And some, too, are cannibals
Of a sort, when it’s called for.
Robert Armin made a meal
Of flat fools and natural,
Printed more books in his life
Than Shakespeare, his employer.
On a recent afternoon,
The return of some late warmth
Agitated grasshoppers.
One or two hop-flew, clacking
With that sharp, ratchety scratch
They make, from dry grass and rocks.
Just since nights are quiet now,
Doesn’t mean no fools survive.
They’re waiting on a good time.
The ants are better than them,
Maybe, but no more final
Winners of the tournament
Than any Bauplan is, no
More determined or hungry.
And when have you felt consoled
In the small hours, any night,
By the steady, rhythmic hymns
Strummed by ever-loving ants?
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