Here’s a much shorter one.
A wasp paused on a pebble
In the humid rage of a morning.
It had scouted the stone Sargasso,
Furious skimmed the taunting weeds.
It quartered the terrain,
Vibrating even at rest
A livid tiny vessel
An ever cocked torpedo.
Till it settled one calmer instant
Bloom and Dedalus like
To take its ease and spend
A tiny photon of time
On something it could never complete,
A glimmer perhaps of freedom
Release from the sensual flame.
But the habit of rage reconquered
In far less than an instant.
It went back to fury and questing
Forgot its quibble with God.