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There Are Real Ants in the Metro There are real ants in the metro. I have sat all day watching the tired feet go by under the bank’s glass forest where tame trees shiver in tin can breeze, always the same shiver, always the same breeze. A ventral blast spouts from the metro’s mouth. On each ridge of the moving stair rides a single ant. The concourse stinks of candy, shoes. A soul drifts by in a paper sheaf, green paper with a stapled top. On the fourteenth floor, drenched in livid lounge perfume, a rigid light bulb dusts the hall. The long shaft bellows: a trapped wind. The workmen, seen from here as ants: blond pigtailed, black t-shirted, jeans, are not, mere ants, essential things. They crawl out from their shaft at mezzanine. Go down. The eye gets smaller. Heaps, hills, vast caverns, anti-hills, stone gardens, plastic rubble— worm holes of the polis—the next train carries an ant on its forehead like a beam. 58 / The Crisp Day Closing on My Hand ...

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