there’s a glass

slab outside where

bees come

to die I

 

watched one

today I could

nearly hear

him moan as he

 

withered and

writhed and

would dry

up – like

 

the crisp bugs I

find every

week. perhaps

 

for insecta the

slab is an

altar or maybe

a stage to

perform their

last aria or

 

maybe I’m just

doing what

I do: reading

 

too much of

everything into

everything.

-ryn gargulinski.04.13.14  

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