The insects have passed insistence
and are verging on malicious.
What are the pupal drosophilae
gleaning in a week that they
chew me?
Summer sun spots compete
with sudden shrieks since
cicadas lost their calendar,
each hot June cloud
strewing thumb-sized carcasses,
thrummed hollow.
And the sleepy bumble bees,
now simply mindful missiles,
fill my calf muscle with a serum
sickening enough to ground me,
buffalo-like and lowing.
Cherries rot on the counter
and the dog collects ticks.
Two locust tree shadows
turn to cool the pool water.
What am I forgetting?
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