Spirals. Anger. Tight arabesques. Red wasps
On bright March mornings are identical
‘Til suddenly they are near to your eyes
And they bristle full-plated in armor
And threaten with a spear that’s pierced before.
Suffering is not distinguished by words
That are unique; the loss of dearest friends
When explained aloud often masquerades
In the language of ruined love, or else
The tears of a child when their pet departs
But I believe we were speaking of wasps-
Unsavory even when they are at their best.
Why is it so easy to evoke them?
Why should they signify raw shock and pain
When they die every year and I am immortal?
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