Dig hell from a haven,
grass knotted in bubbling puddles—
and the ants will worry, as they might,
as you spade, and spade,
clumpfuls and colorless roots,
soil-clumps fly into floury dust.
The ants will worry, as they might—
the grasshoppers roll over onto their sides
and die—
Dig hell from a haven, you sundress,
throw thatch in boiling puddles.
Mould of grass seed newly surmounts
tentative dip and rise.
Delve to unstick ant-masses from
their sprawl, their community haunts;
spade out the teem from rustling earth
meant to be black and still.
-2003
