We sit frantic and superstitious
In the womb of a stormy August night.
Our only light is a flicker taken over,
A flicker like a perforated star-
Or a sun with a manic Mercury.
Afraid of ourselves, we stare at a hornet
Wishing death upon it
Like good believers
We tolerate no disruptions of our rituals.
Was it a paper wasp or a yellowjacket,
We would sleep through it like infants
But the hornet, the hornet,
With its orange depravities
And deviance of a sundew,
Acting as something almost familiar,
Is not to be absolved.
The quietness didn’t arrive with it all
Neither did fear nor fury nor frenzy,
But right now, it is to blame.
We will kill it
Like the Sun kills every eclipse
Despite knowing another will come nevertheless.
And as the storm passes
Still silent and trustless
In stings and wings up to the necks,
We will slowly turn on all of the lights.