Creative Writing

Antennae. [Freeform Poem]

You don’t know that they’re there

on your back. You don’t know that.

They web up into your hair

with the delicacy of dust settling on a shelf in the sun.
So often below feet, on ground.

It’s so important when they

climb higher. If they could

they’d climb a million miles

but nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand and nine hundred and ninety-

nine is so much more than one.

 

One at a time. They’re inching. You can’t see

them. There they are.

Inching and picking, and picking;

climbing.

 

Ever so gradual their legs twitch

an inch.

Forward.

 

Every day is another one.

 

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