A wasp flew in when I left my screen-door ajar, and I blew on it, saying
"go away."
It's clinging to my balcony.
Now, in agitation, knows I hold nothing for it.
And the dogs bark, confused by entwined seasons.
Wind shouts with orders “Combat your deaths!"--
but I acquiesce to darkness in my mind; waiting for the summer
to submerge this springtime
which has momentarily come and outdone
winter.
Breeze carries, or generates, the wings, of my living
solace in the stinging tip of malice on that minute body
--ignoring tendrils which voice gratitude to day--
supplanting laughter with its ***** on down the road.
I want to see the child's face cry as it is initiated into suffering,
smile breaking as he comes to see its transience.
Then slowly I will look down. In shame, walking past this station
toward my exit
and
the street which bears your name.