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
