It's like ants
and more ants.

West, east
their little axes

hack and tease.
Your sins. Your back taxes.

This is your Etna,
your senate

of dread, at the axis
of reason, your taxi

to hell. You see
your past tense—

and next? A nest
of jittery ties.

You're ill at ease,
at sea,

almost in-
sane. You've eaten

your saints.
You pray to your sins.

Even sex
is no exit.

Ah, you exist.