i am the king of insects,
he said, he says,

he continues
a conversation
he started but dropped

he starts, he stops
this conversation,
it’s ongoing,
it went, it goes on,

he goes on with it
to the fine veins of a tattered brown
leaf, he doesn't know
leaves, but he’d guess this one is
from an elm, he guessed it, he guesses

it became, it’s become
plastered to the window with a glue,
this glue called rainwater, he calls it
rainwater, and it was,
it is a glue, with the winter air,
stronger than paste,

much stronger,
it wouldn't,
it shouldn't
hasten anywhere, so he picks up
where he left off, he leaves off
after long pauses,

no,
no, not the king, per se,
but they flock to me,
not like they'd flock
to a living leaf, or a wayward crumb
of pumpernickel, but they come
seeking
something,

I said I was a king,
not a wise man,
though wise enough,

and he paused,

and he pauses,

but he can't continue,

he tries

but not with a glue that's dried
and a leaf that’s slipped,

it dries, the glue,
and the leaf slips,

it slips and floats down,
down to the gutters
filled with so many browns,
when it hears it,

it has heard it,

enough