over the coast road

cranes turn slowly,

mechanical as the legs of wasps. once

in canada

one of them got in

through an open window;

landed right 

in my wineglass. 

 

I fished her out

and put her on the table, then got up

and grabbed another glass

to place on top. she lay

on her side, drenched

and sweating – I watched her legs

move slowly,

and the segments of her body.

 

chitin, weighted

like steel machinery; the way they paint it in stripes

to warn 

construction. after a while

she woke up

and began walking in circles. 

I up-ended the glass

and crushed her on the table. 

 

and they say

the smell of dead wasps

attracts live ones. I finished my wine,

got up

and closed the window.

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