If you let an ant in through one end of a conch shell, it will come out at the ocean through the other, bloodied, muddy, streaks of sand in its eyebrows

On this piece of silk, they wander a little, walking with more or less steady steps weaving into the fabric their momentous journey

As you sit on the motorbike,  hustling through a city between your pyjamas, they spend a sigh of relief as their colony disperse into thin winds of threaded forgetfulness