Once we found ourselves standing
in a house termites sculpted from solid
block, pellucid artisans: You gnaw
away what isn’t beam—and done—begin
anew with beams. It is oddly closer to caving
than living, to burrow into a kitchen or den.
Watch split-level homes cleave further into rooms
and wreathes—lint and joists. Fennel seeds
whisper licorice cosmos all their own
If we must be infinitesimal at least let us care infinitely
small—down to the halves and further fractions. Split
accidents of sound, never null.
If I don’t get out much, I become a catalog of objects. Someone else’s soup spoon lost three months ago? Found. China chipped and shoved in a closet? Retrieved. Deprived of new stimuli I impose order on the old, and stay sane by subdividing existence. Trying to wrap (or warp) my head around scale. Look for measures of the worlds within worlds: How small a chosen home? How small an exploration? I think we must carry some subatomic comfort. I know we carry electrons, bits of risk.