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


-ryn gargulinski.04.13.14