Copper-coated copter flies with intention. He knows just where he is headed, no energy-bleeding, hope-wasting hither and thither. His aim is there— that slit of space formed by the incomplete union of two elderly deck planks. The tiny-waisted tiny being glides inside. Blackness welcomes him home. Safe, safe, safe. Rest! rest! rest! (I know I am Nobody’s poet—And still!) God, I want to be that wasp.