How quickly I lose my love
of all things. I nearly flick an ant
off the cliff of an armchair.

But remember, Self,
the week you spent
enveloped in psalms

intoned by monks?
By Wednesday you beheld

a three-balled body
creeping around
the onionskin of your book,

its six teensy toothpick
legs bent into all manner of
delicate angles.

Your chest became
a doorway
to a spacious unmarked

heaven. You loved the ant.
The kingdom,
said Christ,

is at hand, meaning
not ticking above

in a time bomb of gold-
paved streets but
tapping its antennae

along the heart line
of your imperfect palm.