The ants continue to swarm
colluding, confiding
in whatever it is that’s rotting.
Something still awaits to
announce itself
its stench is lost to me.
Do they know of their doom?
of the broom that looms?
their scattered demise in one fall swoop?
A fatal brush,
A bristled death.
I look away
let them crawl away
let their beady bodies
cluster in writhing clues.
intotheindigo 