How crisp how frail its limbs
twitching still fluidrich
clicking twitching inchlong
too long alien such
a small beast overturned
to turn such revoltings
glossy smooth as wellturned
wood i cannot will not
call it beautiful its
carapace mahoga-
ny impossible the
ladys eyebrow arch
its elegant anten-
nae parabolae and
its small inscrutable
face eyes and mouthparts un
speaking moving clicking
it is this this endless mind
less moving that revolts
tomorrow ended in
the stiff brittle incurl
messageless the last mo-
tion perhaps of us all
i cannot will not call
it beautiful in death --
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Love this! You know, Emily, you have a brother who describes bugs and beetles as God's extravagant jewels. I'm not there yet, either. ;)
ReplyDeleteAI LOVE!
ReplyDeleteSO MUCH!
and yes, I do lurv the bugs, but cockroaches are still...
I wrote a poem about them, too:
one million million million of us
through the count of years have
scuttled underneath you, little,
in all our rambling wanderings
writing for you one word, one
million million million times repeated:
who our generations' spawn began,
who our scuttling foot-joints has created,
who our thoughtless voice from chitin mouths has spun
in endless silent sounds spelled
lightly in the ground again and again and
again, Him;
love Him.
In other news, I read my older sister's poems out loud to my roommates, who are musicians and actors and writers, and they love them all and want to write songs about them.
RK