this morning smells of cinnamon,
of nutmeg and nostalgia, the red
sting of striped wasps and afternoon
falling from the sky like maplelike oak, a yellow day, tasting
of lemons and the sharp songs
of sparrows, a round day, an oval
day, an egg day, the day takes shapearound me but i am an absence today
i am not here, i am not there, the day
passes brightly around this vacancy
an egg-shaped emptiness, yolklessheartless, a finality here where there
is nothing but dreams, floods, refugees
thousands of lost children, pets, these
two wasps mating on the fountainthinking not of drowning, no discussion
no political debate, no faceted visions
no fear of the future, only this essential
desperate and glorious gesture
So, I write this — post this — and then think, wait a minute…
Do wasps mate? Do wasps have Queens, like bees?
I have this all wrong, haven’t I?
So what are they doing?
Leave a Reply