The four am cries
of my son worm
through the double
foam of earplugs

and diazepam.
The smoke alarm's
green eye glows.
Beneath the cries,

the squirm and bristle
of the night's catch
of fiddlebacks
on the glue-traps

guarding our bed.
Necrotic music.
Scored in my head.
And all night columns

of ants have tramped
through the ruins
of my sleep, bearing
the fipronil

I left for them
home to their queen.
Patriot ants.
Out of republics

endlessly perishing.
If I can hold
out long enough,
maybe my wife

will go. If she
waits long enough,
maybe he'll go back
down on his own.