Three Insects

by GENEVIEVE KAPLAN

 

 

Of the ten or so items one was looking for
(seeking), not the palm branch that stings
like a beetle, not the millipede
                                                       leaving the leaf
so slowly, not the incessant incessant
music-making making its way
into everything. 
                             Maybe lightning strikes off
in the distance, maybe gila monsters mounting
the porch, the patio doors. Post-dusk is cool but not
quiet, flashes of danger danger in the distance
distance distance. 
                                Otherwise, and otherwise, in the rocks
and down the stairs, unlit but close enough to light, close
enough to liquid, close enough to
                                                            house. Which tried
to be interest rather than disappointment, tried to perform
sensitivity, to perform outward
                                                         astonishment, 
thankfulness at least resembling satisfaction. It becomes
difficult. Anyway, it doesn’t become easier. Many
evenings one could spend looking for bats, overturning
tables and uncovering tarantulas, moths.