Little fruit flies waft through the kitchen
though there are only lemons in the fruit
bowl: their thick yellow rinds unscored,
no actual perforation for tunneling into and
out of fruit flesh. In the yard, the last
of summer fruit has been sucked to pulp
by helmeted beetles. The pits of peaches
and the seeds of bell peppers dry quietly
on squares of paper towel, but nothing
hovers over them. Can you imagine armies
of insects advancing like a plague,
carrying off babies and small animals?
But perhaps they will deposit them
on forest perches or on the sleeves
of mountains, where summer rain and
fern fronds will raise them until
it's time for them to rejoin
a world in need of remaking.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
