Tryst

A year divides three hundred and sixty five

But not one division has a passion for me
And whether heat or cold may come
My loins maintain this temperate constancy
And nothing can break upon this surety
Not more time, or hope, or opportunity
But the ants they are another matter
Their subterranean labyrinth erupts
In an orgasm of fertilities cornucopia
It ejaculates alates by the thousand
Expulsive fruition of slavish devotion
They weave in amber lines across dusk
And approach me like their progenitor
Then they are gone into supple night
To make their trysts under the stars
Amber satyrs of one consensual feast
Then as the searchlight of day fails
Sated they slip into cracks of their doom
A prison to hold them captive forever
In a tender devotion of familial bonds