Graves,
lunar sleep keeps well,
well-wishers dwell.
Carcass swell,
full flesh wanes soft,
quick frost defrosts.
Then,
Class Insecta. Blind
bite, night gnaw-
ing on wet lawn
string through
perky juvenile floor,
thick cover over
six-square deep sleep.
They eat.
The sickest pro-listers are stacked
together,
angrily racking
clanking metal brackets,
scratching polished
hard wood.
I started with
those I
could have,
or would have….
but, I shouldn’t have.
They carried luggage weights,
heavy
pounds of spouse cake, tarnished
plates of hatred and
pain.
But, I caved in and waited,
counted thousands of
steep old kingdoms, waiting for left finger
rings to ditch them
or
a needle and thread to
fix their stitches, then
prem
their listed sickness.
Each remained, as did their
conditions,
becoming anchors,
growing rancorous chain links
and brackets.
So, I stacked them
back to,
back together, tethered
by their beastly gear,
fear chewing at their insides like
termites
grinding souvenir ply wood,
starting with those it
might
first bite at.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 