The Bug’s Birth, Outside, Jun ’20

I sneezed, and there came to be a honeybee
Lying on the turf. Writhing, writhing amid its stalks,
His arms catching for some fast, that his wings
Might underfoot take air, and him deliver
Anon to higher ground.

The ejecta previously mine, now his and the earth's,
Strung itself along a glimmer, and waited. I
In scruff wonderment could not disprove that
This had been the bug's birth, a new specter, 
From my head fully formed like Athena.

Else, time, God, and the wind
Had sat him there, overturned in the field of cane,
To receive an expression of the limbic energies, 
Those not meant for surgical discrimination,
Reserved to federal power. This logic
I detested, but spent the rest of my hour
In full capture of his aching end.

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