James Arthur Daedalus

Certain things you can conjure: an ant
carrying a line through a seashell, but no end
to your own confinement.

The only insect burrows in your brain,
a termite scuttler, a light engine

turning on the point of a needle.
The labyrinth gates are guarded; you are intended
to starve. Your son is suicidal.

You understand well enough: no mazes
but those you contrive. But

as the crawler eats your cerebellum,
you dwell on its ticking wings.

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