There comes a point for us allwhen more peoplewe know have diedthan still live.You know that in a churchsomewhere a crowdplays Bingo while in anothera congregation honorsthe god they keep betrayingin their hearts.No one is ever morethan a few feet from a spiderand the combined weightof ants on this planetis greater thanthat of human beings.How much soil do they moveIn one day?Are we capable of the same?You tighten your peacoatAs you walk towardsyour car from work.It’s finally a coldyou feel in your fingersas you avoid the branchesbut crunch the leaves.The strap of your satchel chaffesand you’re tired from staying upto monitor the third day of thesecond week of your son’s cough.You tell yourself you’d ratherstayed in bed than rise,that given choice you’d tightenthe shutters and refold the curtainsagainst the light, well awareyou’re lying to yourself, thatyou won’t sleep enough anyway.There’s something you can’tturn off even as you’re sewingyourself shut like a poemin an envelope, why you keepyour bedside stocked withmelatonin, ambien, notepadand pen, a stripped down appon your phone for thingsthat must come out typed.You hope maybe one daythey’ll see it and understandthat everyone is a churchone must kneel inside to prayand that you so dearly enviedthe ants. How they exit and entertheir little hills. How under the groundthey meet in burrows and talkwith scents and touches of their antennae.How they move without regret,without sorrow for what they left behindbecause their whole life built it.