If I am faced
with the truth
and given a choice
between a beast of brute strength
with skin as rough as
a cat's tongue --
a rhinoceros, even,
and its poor vision --
chewing slowly on some grassy stuff

or another creature
so aware of its smallness --
like the ant --
that each day is a victory
for having withstood
the weather-beaten mound of earth:

if it means choosing
between these two types of dying
and each rapturous way
to spend the currency of my life
in breaths of working towards the light,
then I am the ant,




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