Larvae harden into adults, into the complexity
of distinct anatomy—
windowed wings, legs like stitches—tossing off the sodden blanket
of the soft body,
their innocence lisping over the pig, oomphs and fizzes
forming a transcript of triumphs,
but what does it mean to win, out here?
Spring’s raffle: who will live, who’ll become distressed
and wish for a place to climb in.
I’m watching the air fill with the born-again, resting on the corpse
of the rotted oak. Tomorrow I’ll drag it, chain-sawed
to thick tablets, into the woods.
No tragedy to watch it go.
The insects have broken from that burrow into warm air.
Snow has melted from bark and pooled. With nowhere to turn.

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