Kristin Camitta Zimet

Leafcutter ants in clerical black
file through the thorns
of the pupuña palm,

each waving one small semaphore,
one post-it note,
one green byte.

Past them I straggle uphill, shouldering
duffel, tent bag, lumpy volumes
I think I need.

A few days until the damp
deletes my cloth

the folios of flesh fall open;
I enter the fungi's
worldwide web.

I'll pick my way down, antennae tingling,
between my teeth
which word?