By Matthew Francis
After Robert Hooke
All afternoon a reddish trickle
out of the roots of the beech
and across the lawn,
a sort of rust that shines and dances.
Close up, it proves to be ant,
each droplet a horned
traveler finicking its way round
the crooked geometry
of a grass forest.
A finger felled in their path rocks them,
amazed, back on their haunches.
I see them tasting
the air for subtle intelligence,
till one ventures to scale it,
and others follow.
They are fidgety subjects to draw.
If you sink the feet in glue
the rest twists and writhes;
kill one, the juices evaporate
in seconds, leaving only
the shriveled casing.
I dunked one in brandy. It struggled
till the air rose from its mouth
in pinprick bubbles.
I let it soak an hour, then dried it,
observed the spherical head,
the hairlike feelers,
the grinning vice of its sideways jaw,
the coppery armor plate
with its scattered spines.
Some draft stirred it then. It rose to all
its feet, and set off across