Cuckoo Wasps

and as the winged
in­sects pour forth from hinged
skull, a stretch no
more than rea­son — the tim­balous
rudi­ments of flight on frisk­ing
wings — the sta­ples of sum­mered
dusk — late sun shat­ter­ing
on nicks of stained
glass — of in­fil­tra­tion — a stolen clasp of mind — a de­canted vac­uum where
once built an in­side city — fed upon by ban­dit
bril­liance and husked by
the great abate­ment

there ap­pears in the sky
the first swal­low
of many. 

This is one of those flank­ing po­ems, like a sheep­dog, spi­ral­ing in on a point that, in this case, re­mains shrouded in the metaphor. Basically the idea is that ideas are all mostly stolen. They’re pretty food, and when you all of yours get eaten by some­thing, you can al­ways eat some­one else’s. Still not ex­actly right, but over-ex­plain­ing doesn’t do much to sate the ap­petite.

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