Poetry Week: A Wasp

Here’s a much shorter one.

A Wasp

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.


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