stillfugue

The headlamps stream up to the moon,
and they say, “How do you do?”
The moon stares down, mouth askance,
“My,” he puffs, “you all are so efficient.”

For the moon, it is his ant farm.
All of the ants, rushing to and fro
in silly looking lines, appearing organized
like armies. But I want crazy.

The moon wants arms to use
to play with his ants.
I want off course.
Tell my headlamps
to stuff it.