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.