by Mark Allinson

From tropic earth as red as meat
Dyed deeper red in rain
And rising in the tropic heat
You may behold a stain
Upon the air a twisting coil
As if a smudge of smoke
Issued from a pot of oil
On fire—is this a joke?
Has someone buried in the ground
A clump of fuming punk?
But how when here and all around
An inch of rain has sunk
Into the earth until it oozes
Mud between your toes.
And so you stare for it bemuses
How such smoke arose.
Drawing near your wondering eyes
Soon notice down the way
How in swirls to leaden skies
Rise other fonts of grey.
Not smoke, ah no, but living things
Rising to aerial birth—
A billion ants with silver wings
Astir beneath the earth.
Find Tarn at The New Formalist Press http://newformalistpress.com/