Anthill Poem by Abraham Sutzkever
Anthill
Anthill, subconscious of the forest,
Poked up by a curious stick —
Your labyrinths, storey on storey,
Collapse into dust. Be aware:
I am like you. My skull
Crumbles into shards
Carried off by ants — by words.
And every word — up, down, over — roams
From nerve to nerve, through smoke and powder keg.
And all are running from their homes,
Bearing in their mouth a snow-white egg.
1940
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5/1/2024 1:17:28 AM # 1.0.0.1119
