The insects have passed insistence
and are verging on malicious.
What are the pupal drosophilae
gleaning in a week that they
chew me?

Summer sunspot storms
accompany sudden shrieks since
cicadae have lost their calendar.
Their clouds return yearly,
strewing thumb-sized carcasses,
thrummed hollow.

And the sleepy bumble bees,
now simply mindful missiles,
fill my calf muscle with a serum
sickening enough to ground me,
buffalo-like and lowing.

Cherries rot on the counter
and the dog collects ticks.
Two locust tree shadows
turn to cool the pool water.
What am I forgetting?

©Edward Harsen 2012