A fistful of wasps is brooding under the gutter above my roof-exit window. There is a larger nest in the bulky, aged a/c unit that's resting on the fire escape, kind of blocking the fire escape window. In the hot-box. Bodies silkily throbbing, I imagine them absorbing the heat and compressing it into magic yellow poison. Both factions are the same species and I wonder if they are actually one group with two homes. Either way I feel protected.
Sir David taught me that wasps are ants that learned to fly (order Hymenoptera, Greek: membrane/wing). The Apocrita petiole; a tiny waist.
Ants have discovered my kitchen counter is usually delicious. Damn them. With all-natural surface cleaner spray. Say sorry, sorry. They replace themselves, their ranks' trickle doesn't end.
this is not a, you know. n'est pas. faux poem.
i don't know if i can be like you guys.
right now i can only write the things that are happening, any other seeking of words is like
hazily bumping on the glass
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