Let us lag behind the stolen beetles,
captives of the sun, garrulous green
dots, half complete in the bush
but luminous, spendthrift light
vulnerable to the night ants
and our spent crawl
that stirs what is spewed from will,
balls of interest, lit like
the beetles in my palms.
They start to sting
when your voice ends
on the skin of fruit
at the temples of this bush.
We sit to contemplate
the hour, creatures of frost
and light, iron insects re-entering
bodies, and then our anatomy, redrawn.
fiction poetry "fact" photography