Let us lag behind the stolen beetles,

captives of the sun, garrulous green

dots, half complete in the bush

but luminous, spendthrift light

vulnerable to the night ants

and our spent crawl

that stirs what is spewed from will,

caustic soda,

balls of interest, lit like

the beetles in my palms.

They start to sting

when your voice ends

on the skin of fruit

at the temples of this bush.

We sit to contemplate

the hour, creatures of frost

and light, iron insects re-entering

bodies, and then our anatomy, redrawn.