The ants come to claim their Lorca,
bit by bit by bit they haul him off---
a procession of what must be done,
and indeed by five o’clock in the afternoon
they have finished except for the high fives.
In the distance, a bull snorts.
Only a chalk outline of Lorca’s body
remains to mark the spot
where the poet took his last breath,
exhaled his last carbon dioxide
which was quickly sucked up by the trees.
There’s nothing literary about the anthill,
no poetry can penetrate it.
The anthill predates poetry
while aiming for immortality.