First the eye grope, then
the eighth-of-a sec
lag of pure wasp speed
(my bare arm o morte!)
The loner comes, while the
infinitesimal's a slit,
and tumbles in, cross-wise
(oh, poor long withdrawing
head)—
he sings his blades, the way
larva its own filth
at the end of day, in rain
or hair
2 comments:
The first line in parentheses made me chuckle; the second made me laugh out loud. Thanks for this, priceless to read on a Monday morn. Cheers.
Thanks S.L.
Once it was the poor 'gypsy moth', now the wasp. They're worthy of poetry, too
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