Inside Out

the forest is like a house
emptied by burglars

when i am old i hope
to be this free and open

with fire stolen
from the sun

but where have all
the caterpillars gone


long time passing
they’re all in uniform

and dormant now
overwintering as sex machines

hemolymph flooded with glycerol
so ice won’t form

or lying dead in the leaf duff
wings neatly folded

with somewhere an egg
small as the dot of an i

waiting for spring’s
open sesame

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