‘I am old,’ said the Durac, ‘and riddled with charm,
so I live all alone in The South.’
The Slynog replied, with a sound like it cried
though it moved not a part of its mouth,
‘You are eusocial, Eugene, eugenically broke;
you give over too early to wrath.
You keep seeking the reeking unriddling of All
though you look for it only in Math.’
‘Am I truly eusocial?’ the Durac essayed.
It pleasured him slightly to toy
with the sensible Slynog whose ‘sensitive’ seethed
under bedclothes of logic to buoy
up a billow of bubbles of misapplied thought.
‘I’d have thought that a taut skein of cells
in the skin or the blood were eusocial while I,
like an unaxoned neuron or bells
unadorned by book, candle or swung-about cat,
am waiting alone though we meet.’
The Slynog, who nurtured its own hermit past
with plunges through bloodstreams to eat,
said the Durac was right, and remarked that the light
was marvelous this time of the day.
Then they parted imparted with illusions they’d shared
a moment. Each went on its way.