Greater Loss Poem by Edward Nudelman

The dying ant clings
to a dying ant,
the sheep to her sacrifice.
She bleats for it in a green
field or steamy abattoir.
A blot or a mote, a mouse
on its retrograde motion
back to its starless
night under the staircase.
The measure of success
down here among the reeds
and blades, is it not
divergence of life?
Can one discern a dot
in a sea of pixels,
a discrete cloud
over darkening skies?
I heard a lone voice
crying in the wilderness.
I saw an ant lumbering.