Little Ant

Little ant, you are invited to rest here on the back of my hand. You’re invited to think about time with me. I am always thinking about time, all those thoughts pollinate my very skin. Time little ant is not on your side. Feel the coarseness of my skin the ridges and gnarls time was my master, yet a bad teacher. I must confess that I paid too much attention to the movement of the sky and missed the movement of my mind, and you little ant waving your myopic antennas, no doubt pondering the pheochrome taste of my words, no doubt sensing something so large that you can see it not. Not even if my eye comes close to you can you perceive me. This is what time looks like little ant, it’s too discrete to be trapped, too considerable to be conceivable. We are both just ants filtered through its porous skins. Now you wander onto a fingernail. What now little ant? Do you glimpse times cliff edge as I you shake you off, do you grasp that which is unimaginable to you, yet which will surely kill you? Do I?