Saturday, September 3, 2011

Little Sentient Beings

The tiniest, most annoying insects

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.

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