I’ve ever encountered inside are
darting in multiples in and around
my journal like miniscule Mexican
jumping beans on the one nice summer
night I open the enclosed porch windows.
I plead with Lou to explain why they are here.
Are they emerging from some decaying pod I found
on a walk and brought in? Or drawn to some scent?
Of what? Ink? Hand cream? A few grains of sand
still clinging to the pile of Block Island rocks
heaped in a bowl on my writing room desk?
They are furiously agitating around his work
also, but he seems unperturbed, not concerned
that they might infest our whole house. “They will
be gone tomorrow,” he says. “How do you know?!”
I ask. “I don’t think their life span is very long,” he
says, as he closes the door, giving them the room.
It was then I felt their intensity,
as mine melted to sadness.