Ants don't dream.

Neither in somnolence,

(Do ants sleep?)

Nor in their

"Gotta-get-to-work"

Scrabbling march.

They don't paint the cosmos

Across subterranean

Cathedrals,

They don't play

On a leaf stage

With a star-crossed wasp

Sobbing,

Her dead drone lover

Over easy stomped underfoot

By boot and sock wearing gods.

They don't spit swap

Wads of paper

In the story of

Money.

They don't pretend

The place they're born,

In a lottery of births,

Defines them.

Ants don't dream,

Do they?

Is their floor scattered algorithm programming?

Any different?

Less prosaic,

Perhaps,

But

Hardened and polished

In the furnaces of

Form and function,

For certain,

If they do indeed exist

These hive dreams.

Do I dream?

Yes, I dream of ants and men.