the words, every word
on every page of all
the books on every shelf
became little black ants,
like specks of pepper.
Each ant became a stroke
or serif. Three together
could form a zed or aleph.
They marched and fought,
played football. Kissed and
danced the tarantella.
Don Quixote transmogrified
into Donald Duck. Huck Finn
rafted in Finnegan’s Wake.
Spaghetti sauce was now
a clump of sphagnum moss.
Tech manuals praised Emanuel.
The pages had rotted to powder
and dust, vast dunes of ash
and cinders centuries ago.
All the bits and bytes of data
disappeared when the power
grid flickered its last watt
and the only light
in the long night
was from the stars.
God in his infinite love
and benevolence
was unwilling to forfeit
the fruits of all those
sonnets and songs
and stories so He
endowed the ants
to carry on all the folly
and occaisional beauty
and wisdom that we had
once inscribed with quills,
pencils, and keyboards.
Only the words carved
into stone remained
but wind and rain
slowly softened and
erased those until
all that remained
were ants
and grains
of sand.
