Let us lag behind the stolen beetles, captives of the sun, garrulous green dots, half complete in the bush but luminous, spendthrift light vulnerable to the night ants and our spent crawl that stirs what is spewed from will, caustic soda, balls of interest, lit like the beetles in my palms.
They start to sting when your voice ends on the skin of fruit at the temples of this bush.
We sit to contemplate the hour, creatures of frost and light, iron insects re-entering bodies, and then our anatomy, redrawn.
